


The Only Thrill

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Animal Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Triggers Apply, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, If you are triggered by things in this show then don't read this fandom, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, So..., Suicidal Thoughts, canon warnings apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21782008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: Following Deran and Adrian through seasons 1-3.  Mostly canon compliant, with some fill-ins and some inner turmoil to spice it up.--------Your head is like an overripe fruit. Bursting at the stem end, starting to crack and spill out on the floor of the bathroom. Your chest is fire and your stomach is a rock. Your ribs are sharp edged, just like your boyfriend. Or your friend. Or your whatever he is. Your Deran. Just like him.And you’ve never felt more alone in your life.And you’re still not able to convince yourself to want someone else. To want something else. Maybe because your mind keeps returning you to Belize. With his arms around you and his head on your shoulder as the waves churned around you and the sky grew dark. As his whispers against the base of your head were truth and his life here was a lie.
Relationships: Deran Cody & Adrian Dolan, Deran Cody/Adrian Dolan
Comments: 52
Kudos: 74
Collections: Animal Kingdom ▶ Deran Cody / Adrian Dolan





	1. You're The Only Thrill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narrating in 'you' as Adrian. I have mixed feelings about narrating as 'you', I think it can be more powerful and can link you tighter with the character, which is what I'm trying to do in order to get deeper in the character's head.

You're The Only Thrill

“You’re the only thrill I’ve ever had,” he whispers it against the base of your spine as his breath is leading the way back up your body.

That’s pathetic, you think but you don’t say, as his hands grip firmly on your asscheeks. 

You turn your head while his hair spills forward and tickles against your shoulder. His nose in your ear like he can plug the words inside your head, like if he said them and only you heard them and only you can keep them, then it’ll be okay like that. 

Your eyes linger on the open window. The door that leads directly to the sand. The ocean is crashing, the surf was great. You would know, you laid here all day and watched it. You’ve laid here for three days now and watched it. 

And it looked thrilling. But you’re the only thrill he’s ever had. A guy who you’ve seen surf monsters, take down champs. A guy who you’ve seen or heard about or seen pictures of, doing every action sport he can get himself into. Skydiving, motocross, skateboarding, BMX.

But you’re the only thrill he’s ever had. You should ask him why. You should ask him how. But you’re not sure you want to know anyway when his lips attach themselves to your jaw. 

Belize is beautiful, you think, but you’ve seen this part of it from the inside of a matchbox house. You’ve seen it from the inside of his eyes when he leans over you in the darkness. You’ve seen it from where he’s flayed his flesh and bared his soul. You’ve seen it from the words that keep parting his lips when you’re not looking at him, when he thinks maybe you’re not listening. 

You’re the only thrill I’ve ever had. You feel yourself smile, nearly laugh, when he grasps your shoulder and presses you to your back. You wonder if you shouldn’t be smiling right now, not after that confession, not when his eyes are lit up with passion. Passion you never saw in Oceanside. Passion you never saw anywhere. 

You’re not sure how many times you’ve fucked. How many times you’ve had sex. And how many times you’ve done this. Whatever this is. You’re not willing to label it. Because labeling this would mean labeling him. And you can’t label him because no matter what happens here, that label will fail as soon as you’re not here. 

But you smile anyway. And you watch your hand reach out, tucking his hair behind his ear before it can tickle your cheek. You hold it back there, behind his head and wish he had tied it back. 

You’ve stopped smiling, not because you want to but because he’s not smiling. Which, it’s not weird for him to not smile, it’s just that this, whatever this is, this is not something for smiling during. He’s got some kind of expression on his face you’ve never seen before, all you know is, you don’t want to chase it away. Your hand slides forward now, finding his chin under that scruffy beard and pressing your thumbprint into his skin, pulling him towards you. 

It’s not like the world ended when he kissed you the first time. It’s not like it tilted sideways and shook half of humanity off it’s back. It wasn’t even like butterflies or the wild ripping of claws inside your stomach. It was just something you knew. It was familiar. It was your comfort and his. And if comfort was all you could give him then it was worth it. 

—————

You’re packing your bags and you’re heading home. The air is hot and sticky. The ocean is wild. You’re riding one more set, one last set in Belize before you turn the key in the shitty rental and leave. Leave for good. You’re riding one more set and he’s smiling now but it’s strained like the whole world is laying on his shoulders instead of just the hot sun drying the salt from his bare flesh. 

Later when you’re sitting on the beach and you’re listening to the water and you’re watching the sky and you’re hearing the gulls and the sound of him sparking a joint beside you. He’s so close, closer than he’d ever dare to sit with you in Oceanside. And you know you should be reveling in this now. Now because you don’t know when it’ll happen again. If it’ll happen again.

You wonder if you should tell him, tell him you’ll stay. You’ll stay down here for the rest of your life if he’ll stay with you. They won’t find you. Or maybe they will eventually. But it doesn’t matter. What’s one more day? What’s one more day if it becomes a string of days into a string of months? You could find a job. You’re certain you could. 

Your mouth nearly opens to tell him, but his head meets your shoulder. It’s heavy and his thoughts are churning and he won’t vocalize them either. So you sit. With his head on your shoulder and the feeling like your life will never be the same. You don’t want it to be the same, but you don’t want it to change either. 

—————

When he drops you off at the curb in front of your place you’re not sure how to tell him, tell him he’s just changed your life. Tell him you’re bound now in ways that are inextricable, though delicate. 

He nods at you before you can get any words out. A nod that says he knows it all already anyway so there’s no sense in trying to put words on it. A nod that says we’re back in Oceanside now and I’m a Cody. I belong to the family that no one fucks with. I belong to them. And you belong to me. But they can’t know that. 

So you nod back and you watch him drive away. You wonder if the scent of salt in your nostrils is the scent of him or the scent of the ocean. You wonder how many days before that scent is gone. You wonder how long before that scent returns. 

—————

He starts showing up at your place at night. Forcing his way through the window and fucking you like he’s mad at you. Like you ruined his life by lying next to him in Belize. By listening when he spoke all the things he didn’t want you to hear. By touching him in ways he’s never been touched. By kissing him like you meant it. 

He fucks you like he’s mad at you. And you think maybe he should be. Maybe he should be mad at you because you never did say it. You never did tell him that you understood. When he said you were the only thrill he’s ever had, you understood. Because he’s the only thrill you’ve ever had.

He fucks you like he’s dying and you’re the last breath of air he’ll ever breathe. He fucks you like you’re Heaven and this life is Hell. Or maybe vice versa. You’re not even sure anymore. But he leaves you inside out and alone. Every time. And you’re not sure you can do it anymore.

And when he fucks you like he wants to stay, you tell him to leave. You toss his clothes at him and wait by the doorway. You tell him not to come back again. But you don’t mean it. You never meant it. 

—————

He stays away. He sort of stays away. He tries to stay away. But you see him. At the beach. At the shop. Everywhere you go. And it’s not on purpose. You know it’s not. It’s just routine. It’s just your routines that have been wound together since high school and you’re too stubborn to change it and he’s too stubborn to change it. But he looks at you. When he thinks you’re not looking at him. And you do the same. And when he thinks you’re not looking at him, he smiles because he knows. He knows you’re looking at him. How could you not look at him? Look at him. He’s all blond and golden and he’s smiling. His eyes are the ocean and you want to spend your days surfing his waves not the Pacific’s. 

He knows that. As much as he knows he’s supposed to stay away. As much as you know he never could. 

And you end up in the bathroom together. You think this is awfully public for him and you think you shouldn’t go in there, maybe you should ask him to come over later instead but he smiled at you and you felt his hand on your dick before it was on your dick and you barely made it to the bathroom before you were taking off your wetsuits and you wanted his mouth on you so badly you could taste it long before he even looked at you. And when it is on you, you don’t stifle the groan that parts your lips when your head tilts back and the world starts falling to pieces like your insides and your outsides and he’s everything he was and he’s everything you’ll never have and all the things you can try like hell to convince yourself not to want. But you’ll never stop wanting.

—————

Your head is like an overripe fruit. Bursting at the stem end, starting to crack and spill out on the floor of the bathroom. Your chest is fire and your stomach is a rock. Your ribs are sharp edged, just like your boyfriend. Or your friend. Or your whatever he is. Your Deran. Just like him. 

And you’ve never felt more alone in your life.

And you’re still not able to convince yourself to want someone else. To want something else. Maybe because your mind keeps returning you to Belize. With his arms around you and his head on your shoulder as the waves churned around you and the sky grew dark. As his whispers against the base of you head were truth and his life here was a lie. 

—————

“Jesus,” and a look of disgust is all he can offer you. But you’ve never been much of one for Jesus. 

—————

Dave is a nice guy. You’re a nice guy. But you’re certain Deran has ruined you for nice guys. 

And this time when he’s prying the window open and he’s tossing you on the bed, he hesitates after he’s already pressed into you and your fists are clenched around the sheets and your face is hidden in the pillow. He hesitates and you wonder if he’s thinking about Belize. And you’re glad for two things. You’re glad he never skimps on lube. And you’re glad your body knows his. 

Neither of those things stop the ache. And when he’s brushing his lips against your shoulder-blade and backing away from you, when he’s about to take a shower and leave, you’re not sure what’s worse. The physical ache or the emotional one.

“You’re lucky he wasn’t here tonight,” it’s empty, empty like everything else about you. The threat is empty and you both know it. He’s Deran Cody after all. He’s Deran Cody and he’s ruined you for nice guys.

—————

He’s ruined you for nice guys when your nice guy boyfriend is in the hospital and you’re yelling at him on the beach and he doesn’t give a shit and you’re not sure if you give a shit and he’s ruined you for nice guys when you’re sitting on the beach next to him and he’s acting like everything is normal and your nice guy boyfriend is in the hospital again and you’re here with him. And he’s ruined you for nice guys when he talks about the DR and yeah, you’d love to go. You would love to go. If it meant you were the only thrill he’s ever had. 

Instead, it’s a party at Smurf’s and you’d rather be anywhere but here. And he’s flirting with a girl that you know he won’t sleep with but he’ll make a show of it anyway. And he’ll probably make out with her on the couch and maybe get her to follow him to his room where he’ll smoke a joint while she waits for the reason she came back there in the first place and he’ll talk to distract and he’ll keep pouring her shots of tequila and handing her his joint and eventually she’ll pass out and when she wakes up in his bed in the morning and he’s already out surfing she won’t remember if they did or if they didn’t, but here’s a secret. Here’s a secret you’ve always known about Deran. Deran can’t get it up for girls. Sometimes Deran can’t even get it up for you. Because sometimes when Deran thinks about sex, all he can think about are the hands on his body that never belonged there. And sometimes those hands on his body that never belonged there are a sharp pain in his abdomen and the catching of his breath and the watering in his eyes. And yeah, it’s hard to get an erection when you’re an emotional mess that’ll never deal with your emotions. So he smokes more weed and pretends none of it bothers him. But here’s a secret about Deran. Here’s a secret that only you know about Deran. It bothers him. It does bother him.

He’s ruined you for nice guys. But you’re a nice guy. Aren’t you? Maybe you used to be. Maybe he’s ruined you for nice guys and he’s ruined you as a nice guy and maybe nothing will ever be nice again. 

And you know he’s following you. Or at least he’s beginning to follow you out of the garage. And you want him to. You want him to follow you all the way home and you want to close the door behind him and you want him to use the goddamn door this time and every time and you want him to want you, to want you like he did in Belize where things were simple. And you want the DR because maybe it can be simple there too. 

But he stops following you.

And it’s not simple.

It’s not simple when he’s at your place when you get there and he’s walking out of the shadows and maybe he was there all afternoon. And maybe you should tell him you stopped by to see Dave and there was no thrill, there was nothing. And maybe you should tell him you know, you know he’s ruined you and you don’t mind being ruined. But maybe you do mind being ruined and you know he’s ruined too and you can’t be ruined together so one of you has to fix it and then he’s pressing his lips against yours and you melt for just a moment before you remember that you’re not supposed to want to be ruined. And you pull away and your anxiety is climbing your throat and you know you’re going to say something and you have to say something but you can’t breathe and all you can hear is, “I just want to be okay, I just want us to be okay, I just want it to be okay.”

And you do too, “please.”

But now he won’t make eye contact. His hair is hiding his face when he looks down and you want to tell him that you can’t make everything okay. You can’t be his everything. 

But you can’t say that. You can’t say that because then he’ll know that you were listening. You were listening to every single thing he said down in Belize when everyone else was gone and it was just the two of you in that rundown shack and he was chasing shadows up your body and you were chasing goose-bumps down his and you think Belize was beautiful but you only saw it from the bed and the beach and it was simple. 

And he’s still so close to you, he’s so close and he just kissed you. And you can still taste him on your lips and feel him on your tongue and you hate him. You hate him for ruining you. 

He’s still so close you could reach out if you wanted. You could reach out and hug him. You want to hug him. He wants to be hugged though he’d never admit it. He wants you to be his everything. He wants you to erase his childhood. He wants you to be the only hands he’s ever felt on his flesh at night. 

Maybe you want that too.

But you hate him. For hiding. For pretending. For wanting everything to be okay when he’s the only one that can make it okay. You can’t do that. You’re not the one that can do that. And you can’t do it together. He has to do that part. He has to.

You can’t spend your life being ruined.

“You wanna come inside?”

His head is rising, his eyes are cloudy and there’s nothing in this world you hate more than when Deran cries. But you can’t spend your life being ruined.

“Come on in.”

He’s nodding, he knows, he knows what’s happening now. And he knows it’s not okay. You’re not okay. He’s not okay. 

“You want me to come to a party? I’ll be there.”

Every time his eyes flit across yours it makes you want to kiss him, or punch him, or hold him, or maybe start crying too. He’s still so close to you, it’d be so easy. But you can’t spend your life being ruined.

“Go surfing. Go to Belize,” you can’t stop your voice from breaking, because you both know what Belize means. It means it’s okay, it means we’re okay, it means he’s okay, “whatever you want man. You’re in charge. You made that clear.”

He’s so close, he’s so close and you want to hold him. You want him to stop crying. You want to never be the reason he cries. But you can’t spend your life being ruined, “sorry, you can’t make me feel something I don’t.”

It’s a lie. And you know it’s a lie. And he knows it’s a lie. That tear is glowing on his cheek in the dimness of the night lights. He’s so close and it’d be so easy, it’d be so easy to make this all okay. To make us okay. To make him okay. But you can’t do that for him. He has to do that for him. And the only way to make him do that is to push him away. He can’t keep running to you. He can’t. And you can’t. 

His eyes linger for a moment like he’s waiting for you to take it back and you want to take it back and you want to take him in your arms. Because you hate yourself and you hate him and he hates himself but he can’t hate you. You know he can’t hate you. Maybe you're the only thing he can't hate.

And he’s turning away and he’s wiping his face and you want him to leave but you want him to stay and you know he’ll never stay. 

And he’s turning around again and he’s looking at you like he’s not sure if he should punch you or kiss you again because maybe he can, maybe he can make you feel something you don’t since it was all a lie, it was a lie and you know it but you’re not sure he knows it. But you want to be sure he knows it and you can’t move. Your chest is on fire and your ass is numb, your world is narrowed down to nothing more than his blue eyes and the tear-stained cheeks and you fucking hate that. You hate that. You hate that you caused that, even though he’s the one who caused that, and you never should have gone to Belize. And you never should have listened to all the things he didn’t want you to hear but he couldn’t stop himself from saying when your skin was against his lips and under his hands.

Then he’s gone. He’s gone. The keys are in your hand and your guts are quivering and maybe your whole body is quivering. Because you’re the only thrill he’s ever had.

And he’s the only thrill you’ve ever had. 

And you don’t know how to make that okay.

As you eye the shadows he disappeared into, you wonder if he knows, if he knows that you feel all the things, all the things he made you feel, every time, and you always have and you probably always will. And you wonder if he knows, if he knows how to make it all okay. Because that’s all you want. You just want it all to be okay. You just want to make it okay. You just want it all to be okay, “please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might do this for all four seasons. Haven't decided yet. A chapter for each season? We'll see. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :) I am always glad to know I have company so feel free to say hello!


	2. Before It's Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You' are Deran. Season one Deran. So, hold on tight!

Before It’s Too Late

You’re not really sure how it happened. Belize. Maybe it was the air on the beach. Different than Oceanside. Far away from her. You’re not sure how it happened, but it did. And now you can’t keep your hands off him. Your lips off him. Words just keep falling out of your mouth. When you’re alone with him. All this shit you should never say. To anyone. All this shit you never thought you felt, or never knew you felt. Maybe you never thought you were capable of feeling it. Feeling anything soft and loving. Loving without demanding. Or forcing.

Sometimes at night you hold him. Against your chest and you just listen to him breathe. And you wonder how you’ve never done that, never done anything like that. Every time you’ve had a girl sleeping in your bed, you’ve never slept in it. Every time you’ve ever made out with a girl, it’s never, it never. And there aren’t other guys. There’s not, you’re not gay. You’re not bi or whatever. You’re just, it just, sometimes you just overthink it. Sometimes, it’s just, it’s her. And she’s just there in your head. All the time maybe. But now, it’s him. It’s Adrian and it’s no one else. And when you’re watching him sleep you wonder, you start to think of all the times you looked at him, like he was something you wanted but couldn’t have. You couldn’t have him as a friend, not one Smurf knew about. So you’d hang out at the beach, surf, school, wherever you could go that she wouldn’t find you. Because you aren’t allowed to have things, you aren’t allowed to have things without her permission. You never were. You never will.

You take a deep breath of him and you wonder if maybe you should never go back. If maybe you can stay here. If maybe he, maybe he’d stay too. He stirs and you feel ice in your veins and fire in your muscles. Fight or flight kicks in and you want to run. You want to run as far as fast as you can to get away from this, away from this fucking melting feeling that’s been happening when you touch him. And you want to fight, you want to fight the whole fucking world for him. To keep him. To keep him to yourself. You have to keep him to yourself, you can’t share him. He’s yours. He’s your only thing. He’s always been your only thing. And you can’t, you can’t let anyone else touch him. No one else can know. 

He’s waking up and, he’s waking up, and you’re busted. You’re here, staring at him sleeping and he’s waking up and, you need to move. You need to get up and leave, and get up and pretend you slept on the other side of the bed, and pretend you don’t want to be here, you didn’t mean to stay here, you didn’t do this on purpose. You’re not gay. You’re not, you’re not anything. You’re just, it’s just him. And it’s just Belize. And it’s simple. And he’s not waking up hard like you do, he’s not jolting awake and ready for a fight, or reaching for a smoke. He’s not waking up hard. He’s waking up soft and he’s, there’s, he’s just, something is happening. It’s like he’s, he’s getting closer. It’s possible to get closer? It’s like he’s sinking into you, it’s like he’s becoming liquid and seeping into your skin and pouring into your bones, and leaking into your soul and he’s finding all those holes and gaps and broken places and he’s filling them. And you’re, you think you’re suffocating. Or being smothered. Sweat is lining your skin even if your insides are cold. Your breath is getting hard to control and maybe he thinks you’re someone else, or maybe he thinks you’re, “Deran?”

“What?” it’s jumpy and if one word can be defensive then it’s defensive and you can feel your body wanting to take off. 

“You okay?”

“What?” it’s rushing in your ears and you think you might be squeezing him. Are you squeezing him? You can’t let him turn his head and look at you. You know how you look, you know you look like you’re panicking. And you have no reason to panic, but your body is getting, like your skin is too tight and you can’t move. Why can’t you move? It’d be so easy to just get up and walk out and get to surfing before breakfast and watch the sun come up and why is he awake this early? It’s too early for him to be awake. He sleeps in. Does he sleep in? Is he just someone who sleeps like a normal person? And you’re not. Normal.

The lazy early morning light is so delicate on his face, his face is so delicate, and he’s looking at you now. Shit, he’s looking at you now and you’re just staring. Why are you staring? You’re not capable of anything else. Shit. 

His hand, all rough in all the right places, it’s rising and touching your face and you’d flinch if you could move. If you could move, you’d flinch, you’d get up, you’d get to surfing, and eating and drinking beer, and you would flinch. Because he’s touching you and he’s not supposed to touch you. Not your face. That’s, it’s too much, it’s too something like intimacy and something like caring and something like, something like you want. You want. You can’t want. You can’t want anything other than the things she gives you.

His thumb is against your chin, knuckles tucked against your jaw, he’s pulling. Just a little. Just, it’s a tiny pull, and you feel yourself moving. Moving in the direction he’s guiding. Shit. He’s guiding towards his lips and it feels a lot more like that thing, like something, there’s not a word for it. Not a word you can have. Not a word that’s yours. 

But he is yours. He’s always been yours. He’s always been your only thing. Your only thing that was yours when she didn’t know, the only thing that was yours that you took for yourself and kept for yourself. And now you’re, it’s, maybe it’s too much. Or maybe it’s too little, but his breath is mingling with yours and you feel his heart beating under your hand on his chest and it’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.

—————

“It’s okay baby, everyone makes mistakes,” you killed a guy, you got a guy killed you think. If not killed, then hurt, and we don’t hurt people. 

Even if Baz was the one that grabbed the wheel, you’re the one who, “those guys weren’t s’posed to be there,” and you got Craig shot and she’s singing. She’s singing that song, and her fingers are walking down your spine and her fingers are walking down your spine and they’re close to your waistband and they’re walking down your spine and you think her comfort is pain. And you think her comfort has always been pain and you want to go now. You want to go to Adrian, but last time he told you to leave. He told you to leave. You wanted to stay and he told you to leave. And you can’t blame him for that. And you can’t hate him for that. Because what you did in Belize was different. But here in Oceanside, you hate yourself, you hate every part of yourself. And he’s yours, he’s yours and you have to hate him too. And you have to hate the part of you that wants to treat him nicely and wants to hold him at night and wants to watch him sleep. You have to hate the part of you that is only yours and the only thing that’s ever been yours. And you can’t let him get closer, you already let him get too close and you can’t push him away but you have to push him away and the only way you know how to do that is to hate fuck him and hate fuck yourself because you want him and only him and you can’t have him and only him and he’s, he told you to leave. When you wanted to stay.

And you can’t hate him for that. You can only hate yourself. 

—————

You got a guy killed. A cop. It’s certain now.

And you want Adrian. You want to spill your guts about all of it, every single part of it. But you can’t. Adrian wanted you to leave. So you leave. You leave the house. You sit outside his place. You don’t let yourself in. You don’t call him. You don’t text him. When it gets light out, you leave. You leave, and you know he’ll show up eventually. You surf. You bob on the board. Listen to the waves, watch the other surfers and the people at the park. You wait. But you don’t want it to look like you’re waiting. Waiting for him. But you need him. Even if you don’t talk to him. You need to see his smile. You need to see the way the ocean reflects off his eyes. 

—————

You’re pretty sure you just beat him up. You’re pretty sure you just ruined the only thing you’ve ever had. You’re pretty sure you don’t know what you’re doing anymore. Maybe you’ve never known what you’re doing. Maybe the only thing that ever belonged to you is yours to destroy. And maybe you can’t let him in your life. Maybe you have to destroy him before your life can destroy him. Before your brothers can. Or before Smurf can.

—————

You can’t look him in the eye. Not really. He doesn’t want to look at you anyway. Now that you’re seeing what you’ve done, you can’t fucking breathe. He never deserved any of this, he never deserved to be a part of your life and you can’t, fucking, breathe, and you can’t fucking let him go either. 

You might have apologized. He might have heard you. But neither one of you are listening. You’re both reading between the lines. 

I hate you.

Not as much as I hate myself.

—————

You’re everyone’s emotional punching bag.

You try to remember what it was like to be happy. 

You’re not sure you’ve ever been.

You try to remember last time you had something of your own.

Maybe you never did. 

You’re everyone’s physical punching bag. 

What the fuck are you?

Who the fuck are you?

—————

“Say, ‘thank you J for actually having some real balls. I got scared in there. Thank you J for actually having some real balls’,” Pope is in your face after you froze up. After you wouldn’t cut the wire. After you actually had some self-preservation kick in on a job.

You got scared in there. You’re always scared, “Shut up!”

—————

“I just wanted to say that I didn’t see anything the other day. In the bathroom. At the beach. And either way, I don’t care,” like it matters if J cares. About anything. About you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” but your chest gets tight and you want to rip your skin off. Once, you did try to rip your skin off. Once, when you got into Craig’s stash. You’re not even sure what you took. But you tried to rip your skin off. You were a teenager. You were trying to rip your skin off because it was too tight and it was too itchy and it was too much and you were trapped. You were trapped inside your own skin. And Craig dumped you in a tub full of ice and you’re pretty sure he was crying when he hollered in your face to never fucking do that again. And you’re definitely sure he was crying when he turned away from you and said you scared him.

—————

“I had to deliver your ugly ass myself. Gas station bathroom. Slid right out on the floor,” Pope looks at you like the very image of you disgusts him.

You are everyone’s emotional punching bag.

Maybe you need your own. J’s little. He’ll do. He has to earn his spot in this family anyway. Just like you did. You might have been born into it, born on the bathroom floor of a gas station, but you had to earn your way into it. No free hand-outs. And for everything you earn, she reminds you, she has to remind you that you didn’t deserve it, that you didn’t really earn it, she only gave it to you. 

She gave you everything you have. And you try to remember if anything has ever been yours. 

—————

She went after J. She went after him when he ran away. You try to pretend you weren’t waiting up, you weren’t just sitting here watching TV and waiting.

“No more running away, okay?”

She never came after you. She only ever sent your brothers for you. And she only ever sent them because they needed the fourth man for the job. Not because she loved you. 

She loves him.

“Mom?” 

Nothing more than a laugh. Isn’t that what you’ve always been to her?

Maybe that’s what you’ve always been to everyone.

—————

Your Beretta is loaded. It feels right. It looks right in your hand. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed. Trying to remember what happiness feels like. Maybe what anything feels like. Anything more than rage boiling under the surface. Anything more than rage boiling over. Anything more than his face cracking beneath your fist. And his ribs shattering under your foot. And you’re trying to remember if anything has ever been yours. Even your own life. 

They’d be the same. With or without you. They’d be the same.

But him? He’d be better off. He’d be better off without you.

—————

“You wanna take a swing at me?”

Please say yes. Please do it J. Please. So I can feel something. Anything.

“I’m not gonna make the offer again.”

—————

“Talked to J. It’s all good.”

She hates you. She’s the reason you keep fucking up. And she hates you.

—————

You like skydiving. You like skydiving because it feels so close to death. And maybe someday you won’t pull the chord.

You like strip-clubs. You like strip-clubs because you have to like strip-clubs. Don’t you?

You like paintball. You like paintball because you like shooting things. You like shooting things. And one of these days the Beretta will be loaded and it’ll be in your hand and you’ll be sitting on your mattress. And you’ll aim it in the right direction. You’ll aim at at yourself. You’ll tuck it in nice and tight against your chin. Or maybe your temple. Maybe you’ll rig a shotgun to blast your head off. A shotgun would be fool proof. You’d hate to just turn yourself into a vegetable, you’d hate to have Smurf wiping your ass. You’d hate to have her spoon feeding you. 

Maybe if you piss Pope off enough, he’ll do it for you. 

—————

It’s okay. It’s okay to be near him when you’re in a group. When you’re skating. When you jump off the pier you see him look at you. Look at you like he’s worried. He’s worried about you. And you hate him for that. Because you can’t worry about him. And you can’t get him to just go, just leave, just get the fuck out of your life. 

—————

“I know she’s been riding you, I get it,” but Baz doesn’t get any of it, “I get that you wanna punish her, but this whole routine is getting a little old, don’t you think?”

The routine? The routine of staring at your Beretta every night under her roof. The routine of leaving. Of running to Adrian, of finding some semblance of peace, of finding some kind of feeling, some kind of real feeling. Of finding something, anything, that makes you feel. And you feel, you feel when you’re with him.

“Na man, you know what? I’m done. I’m sick of her shit. I can’t take it anymore,” I can’t stare at my gun every fucking night anymore and wonder if I’m strong enough to pull the trigger. When I’ll be strong enough to pull the trigger, “sorry man, I’m done.”

—————

You knew that was him bent over by the board rack. Of course you knew that was him. You know every freckle and every muscle line. You’d know it was him from ten miles away. And you act nonchalant, you try, you try to act nonchalant, like it isn’t ripping your heart of your body when you ask, “hey, we cool?”

He waits a beat, takes a toke, just to make you wait, just to make your heart thud so fucking hard you know he can hear it, “yeah. Yeah, we’re cool.”

But you know that’s a fucking lie. Because. Dave. 

Damn it.

Dave with his fishing charter and manners. And he’s well dressed, and well groomed and he’s probably never gotten a cop killed. 

And you shouldn’t be standing here watching. But you know Adrian and you know this is where’d he’d go on a date. And you watch. And you know if you see them kiss you’ll die. Or you’ll kill someone. Or you’ll kill yourself. You’re not even sure anymore. Maybe you’ve never been sure. 

You chew on your thumb until there’s blood in your mouth but the metal in your mouth is okay. It’s the metal in your veins that worries you.

—————

He’s yours and he needs to remember that and you need to remember that. The crow bar is where you left it last time. Last time when he told you to leave. Last time when you wanted to stay. You wanted to say.

If he didn’t want you to come back, he’d have moved the crow bar. You’re certain of that.

You catch him off guard, but only ‘cause it’s been awhile. You push and shove, but none of it is for real. He pauses, there’s light in his eyes and he yanks your shirt off.

Something happens. Something like feeling. Something like feeling when you push into him. Something like feeling. And something worse than feeling. Missing. Missing him even though he’s right in front of you. 

It’s worse when you’re drying off and smelling him in the towel. And now you have to talk. You know he’ll talk. And you want, you want anything but talking. You have to come face to face with, “this has to stop.”

You know he’s not talking about, “I’ll fix your window,” but you have to try anyway.

“No, it’s not about the window.”

And you know, “this about Dave?” but you don’t want to know.

“I met him a few months ago.”

“Yeah, like I give a shit,” but you do. You give too much of a shit. And you don’t know how to fix it, “does he know about me?” because he’s yours, Adrian is yours and Dave needs to know that. 

“No. What’s there to say? You’re lucky he wasn’t here tonight,” like it matters. Like it doesn’t matter. Like none of it mattered. Like Adrian’s not yours. 

“You and Dave, gonna fag it up at Pottery Barn and get matching dishes and shit,” ‘cause you know Adrian hates that. When you say shit like that. He knows. He knows everything about you. Even the shit you don’t know about yourself.

“Do you even hear yourself? How much do you have to hate yourself to even talk like that?”

A lot. I hate myself a lot. And it’s not about being gay. Adrian knows that. It’s about being scared.

“I don’t hate myself. I don’t hate myself, okay? I’m just not,” happy. Loving. Caring. Easy, “like you.”

“No. No,” he’s getting angry and you hate that, “you just break into guys’ apartments and have sex with them.”

“No. Not guys. Just you,” he’s all you’ve ever needed. He’s more than you deserve. And you’re going to ruin him.

“I can’t do this anymore, man. Belize was a long time ago. It was simple then. That was the point. It just happened.”

“You know what?” it didn’t just happen, “it was simple to me too,” none of it ever just happened, “and it still is. Okay?” and maybe there was never a single part of it that was simple.

“You beat me up in a public restroom,” there it is. You knew you weren’t cool, “when that kid showed up, to keep it from your mom. That’s not simple!”

“Hey! This isn’t about Smurf,” and you’re so close to him and you want to kiss him. It’s been so fucking long since you’ve kissed him, “okay?”

“Really? Then go tell her.”

You turn away. Because it isn’t about Smurf. It’s about you. It’s about how you don’t feel anything anymore. How you don’t know how to act anymore. How the only thing that was ever simple isn’t simple anymore. And the only thing that ever made you feel, the only thing, he can’t do this anymore.

“Exactly.”

You lift the crow bar. Maybe you kind of try to threaten him with it, maybe you think you can kill him now and get it over with, get it all over with. Kill him. Kill yourself. Before it all just gets worse. It’ll all just get worse. It’s what you do. You fuck up. You fuck things up. It’s what you’re good at. It’s the only thing you’re good at. 

You’re a fuck up. Everyone knows that.

But you don’t, you don’t kill him. Or yourself. 

You’re not sure why. Probably because of him.

—————

You should have.

“You ever feel like leaving, man?”

“Sometimes,” Pope’s the only one that’ll be honest, you’re sure of it, “yeah. Prison. Is that what Belize was about? You wanna leave?”

Yeah. You wanna leave. You wanna leave and never come back. But now, now it’s not like you could convince Adrian to come with you. Adrian has a Dave, “no, man, it’s just. It’s just Smurf. I wanna leave her,” wanna leave her and have him. Be his.

“How was it down there?”

There are no words, “it was good. It was really good,” and nothing in this life from here forward will ever compare, “hey, you remember Wayne Cullen?”

Because it’s the only solution. Violence. If you can’t love something to death, then you can beat it. If you can’t mark Adrian as yours, then you can scare off anything else that could take him. It wouldn’t be the first time. Wayne Cullen. That asshole. He was thirteen and Adrian was only eleven. Thinking it was okay to steal his lunch money. Thinking it was okay to slam his locker shut on his hand. Thinking it was okay to tease him for liking to read. Asshole. And you’re pretty sure Wayne Cullen knew Adrian was gay and you’re pretty sure that was his way of hitting on him. And you didn’t like it. And you were too goddamn scrawny back then even if you were scrappy.

—————

You ruined him. You know you ruined him. And he doesn’t give a shit. He just pokes you anyway, “that’s your biggest fear isn’t it? Being out in the cold without Mommy’s love?” 

He thinks it’ll get a rise out of you. Maybe it should. But it doesn’t. It just makes you certain he’s still yours. He’s yours. He will always be yours. And now he knows that. And now Dave knows that.

He doesn’t give a shit about Dave. You know that, he knows that, and now Dave, poor Dave all alone in the hospital, knows that. 

If he gave a shit about Dave, he wouldn’t be here trying to get a fight out of you, “I’ll see you tonight.”

‘Does he know about me?’ You smirk as you leave Adrian standing on the beach, thinking, he certainly knows about me now.

—————

If he gave a shit about Dave he wouldn’t let you in. He wouldn’t let you fuck him. 

—————

You want to see if he’ll run off with you. Now. Right now. Tonight.

But you promised Pope you’d come home.

“Hey baby,” she’s kissing your hair and it makes you want to shave your head. And it makes you want to rip your skin off. But she’s familiar. And she’s your mother. She is your mother. And she won’t ever let you forget that.

—————

She reminds of that soon enough. Soon enough when you’re planning the next job. Soon enough when you try to take a stand. Soon enough.

“And I’ll remember that when I divvy up the take,” she loves to remind her son’s of that.

—————

“If something happens tonight, I’m coming out firing. Do you understand me? They’re gonna have to kill me ‘cause I’m not going back inside,” sometimes you think you have too much in common with Pope. Sometimes you think you are Pope. Pope without a diagnosed mental issue or whatever it is Smurf keeps trying to medicate. 

You understand. Of course you understand. You feel like that every fucking day. But your life is your prison, “Jesus, man what happened to you in there?” but it’s not like you actually want to know. All his pacing around the house at night, and all his smashing bricks, and all his Popeness is enough. More than enough. To make you certain that you’d die in prison. So yeah, you’d come out shooting too. Hell, you’d come out shooting anyway. Just so you weren’t the one who smeared your own brains all over the place. 

—————

J wants to know why you chose Nicky. Why you chose her family. Why? Because if they know you have something, they will destroy it. That’s why. And that’s why they can never know. They can never know about Adrian. They can never know about him. 

“He’s not done with ‘em, okay?” you warn. You warn. Because they don’t care. They don’t care about people. People are just stepping stones to get what they want. Smurf, Baz. They don’t care. They don’t care about people. They never will. Not even the people in their family.

You should tell the kid to run. Run now before it’s too late. 

—————

It’s not too late. It’s not too late. It can’t be too late. You’re having fun. Adrian’s having fun. Surfing and screwing around. Like always. You’ve always had fun with him, with this. Maybe this is happiness. Maybe this, “maybe we should go back to Belize,” because maybe that was happiness. Maybe, “just you and me this time,” because you know that would be happiness. Without a doubt.

And there’s something about Dave on his lips but you only want yourself on his lips. 

—————

This girl is stupid. She’ll do. For the little game you play with girls. Flirt, make-out, get them higher and drunker and don’t screw them. You don’t screw girls. You can’t. Sometimes you can’t even jerk off. Sometimes you can’t even think about your penis. Sometimes it’s just a part of your body that makes you feel sick. It feels like a stabbing in your stomach. And it twists around in your body until your skin starts with that itching and you wish you could slither out of it like a snake. 

But you can’t. And you can see Adrian sitting there. And you want him. You want him to smile. You want to be sitting poolside flirting with him. But you hate that he’s at your house, you hate that he’s here, that someone could see it. They could see the way you feel like you when you’re with him. They could see the way he’s yours and they could take him away. 

“You wanna go, then go, I don’t give a shit,” but you do give a shit. And you want to reach for him. And you want to take him to your room. No, you don’t. You want to take him somewhere far away. Far away from here and all the bullshit that follows you around like a shadow of violence and crime and death and it’s only a matter of time before he ends up in the dust of your life. And you want to reach for him and slide your hands down his arms and pull him close to you and you want to fucking kiss him, because when is the last time you kissed him? You can’t remember. Maybe that’s that last time you were happy. Maybe. You want to remind him, you want to whisper against his spine, you want to feel his spine against your lips, remind him, ‘you’re the only thrill I’ve ever had’, and it’s still true. You could go after him. You have to go after him. No one would see it. No one.

But shit, shit, Craig did see it. And now it’s too fucking late. It is too late. It’s too late to run. 

—————

“I don’t give a shit who you have sex with man, why do think I invited him? I don’t wanna talk about this either, but just don’t be an asshole. Adrian is a good guy. And this shit? Is embarrassing.”

Yeah, it is. It’s embarrassing as hell that you can’t get a hard-on for a woman. Does he know? Does Craig know that part? 

No. No way. He only knows the Adrian part of it. That’s the only part there is, “does everyone know?”

“No man,” he pats your leg and you think maybe it feels the way it would if a dad ever patted your leg. And you wonder if Craig is the only person in your life, besides Adrian, who has ever touched you just because you were there. Just because you were there. And there was no other reason behind it. No violence or malice or any of that behind it. 

—————

Shit. 

It’s too late. You’ve fucked up too much. Too far. Too many times.

Shit.

But maybe, just maybe, if you can get your lips on him. If you can tell him, if you can find some kind of fucking words that could even possibly describe what you feel for him. That you need him and you need him to stay away from your family and you can’t afford to let him get close to that side of you, but you need him, and if it means being gay, then you’re gay. And if it means kissing him and holding him, and using matching dishes and towels and shit, then that’s what you’ll do. Whatever it means, whatever it means, as long as it means he’s yours. 

You practice it all in your head, all the possible things you could say to make it clear. That you’re sorry. That you’re an asshole. That you’re fucking broken and you’ve always been and the only time you weren’t was down in Belize and he has to know that already. All the possible things you could say while you wait in the shadows because the shadows are where you’ve always lived your life. And the shadows are safe. 

You start to wonder if he’s with Dave. If he’s visiting Dave. But he said they were done. He said they weren’t a thing. You know they were never a thing. Not a real thing. Not like a Belize thing. 

He’s not with Dave.

He’s not.

You’ve bit a hole in your thumb by the time he finally parks in front of his place. By the time you finally start walking and all that shit you practiced about being sorry, and please, please, another chance, one more shot. That you can be better this time, you can do better this time, you can treat him better, give him what he deserves. But words fail and your hands are on his face and your lips are against his, and it feels right. It feels right for the first time in so long and you wouldn’t give a shit if Smurf rolled up with the entire family or all of Oceanside or all of the damn world right now. This is right. This is all that’s ever been right. But it’s not. Is it? He’s not right. He’s not comfortable. You fucking scared him. You scared him and you can feel it in his body against yours and you fucked up. You fucked this up.

You fucked it all up. It’s what you’re good at anyway.

And all the things you practiced, and all the begging for forgiveness, it turns into, “I just wanna be okay, I just want us to be okay. I just want it to be okay. Please.”

It sounds so fucking pathetic. But that’s all you’ve ever been.

It’s so tight in your chest and it’s burning behind your eyes and spilling down your face and you hate that. You hate that. It’s feeling. It’s something like feeling. But it’s all the wrong feeling. 

“You can’t make me feel something I don’t.”

But you want to. You want to make him feel all the things he did. All the things he felt. All the things you made him feel in Belize. You know he felt them then. 

But you scared him. He’s afraid of you. He is afraid of you. And you have become the one thing he never saw you as. You have become a Cody. Now, you are nothing more than a Cody to him. The only person in your life who ever saw as you were, as you had been, as the one thing that you once were that he maybe loved. He loved you then. But now you’re a Cody. 

You feel yourself turning away, you can taste him on your tongue and the words that are stuck to the roof of your mouth get trapped behind your teeth when you look at him once more. All the ‘I love you’s in the world couldn’t change what you’ve made him see in you now. The one thing you never wanted him to see. 

You’re a Cody. And even he had to be faced with that at some point. 

You’re a Cody. You wear her fingerprints like a brand. 

You’re a Cody. And you can’t change that. 

But you know exactly where a loaded Beretta is. And now? Now you know he’d be better off without you. Because you can’t make him feel something he doesn’t. 

Your body is moving. It’s moving and you don’t stop it. You don’t stop it. You don’t know where it’s going. Maybe it’s going to Belize. Maybe. 

You’re not sure and you don’t feel it until you’re on the beach. The water is cold. It’s up to your waist already and the waves are strong, crashing against your chest with a promise. You keep walking until the water sweeps your feet out from under you. You wonder, you wish, that you couldn’t swim. You wish that you couldn’t hold your breath. You wish you had never struggled your way back out from beneath so many waves. You wish you had never fought your way through your childhood. 

—————

You wake on the beach. You don’t remember. You don’t feel. You know you’re cold. You should be hypothermic by now. But if you are, you can’t feel it. You should be moving. You should be getting to your feet, dusting off what’s left of your pride, and heading home. Or knocking on his door like a normal fucking person would, and use those words you practiced. Those ones like ‘I’m sorry’. Those ones like, ‘I love you’. You should use those words. 

The sun is dull. For Southern California. Maybe it’s winter. You’re not even sure. Can you ever be sure in a place where there are no seasons?

You’re a Cody. You hear it in the waves as they reach the beach. The water as it trails through the sand and rolls it into the tide. You hear it in the gulls. You see it written in the clouds, high and wispy over the sky that’s turning into brilliant shades of morning. 

You’re a Cody. And no one will ever love a Cody. You’re unlovable. You don’t blame him. You’re not even sure you blame yourself. Or Smurf. Not really. You’re not stupid. Not really. Not stupid enough to believe that Smurf was just born that way. Not stupid enough to think that she just one day decided to be what she is. You’re not stupid. You know someone else made her who she is. And she’s made you what you are.

You’re a Cody. You’re one step away from a straight jacket. You’re one step away from being locked up again. You’re one step away from pulling that trigger. But you’re a Cody. You’ve always been. Even if you had to earn your place at the table. You’ve always been. 

But do you always have to be? 

Keep your head down. Do your part. Keep your mouth shut. Do your part. Let them, let them use you as their punching bag. Let them use you. Let them. 

You talk to Craig. About the job. About Smurf. About Pope. About Baz. But not about you. Not about Adrian. Not about how you’re afraid. You’re not afraid of the job. You’re not afraid of the family. You’re not afraid of getting arrested. Or killed. You’re afraid because you’ll always be stuck in this current. 

But you talk to Craig. Because Craig is the only one who would notice if you were acting weird. He’s the only one. The only one who cares. Cares? He cares. He wouldn’t have done all that shit for you when you were kids if he didn’t care. Or was he only forced to care?

He cares. He has to. Someone has to. 

—————

Smurf is doing Smurf things and Pope is doing Pope things and you’re pretty sure you’re losing your mind. You can’t go back to your place because Smurf rented it out. Something about someone who pays their rent and doesn’t live like a pig and you said you are what she raised and she took a handful of your hair and reminded you that without her, you’d be dead. 

You don’t think you care. 

Craig is chasing whatever current ass, maybe Renn. Baz is, you don’t care. You’ve never had any common ground with Baz anyway. 

You’re fucking suffocating. And there’s no way to stop it.

You’re still suffocating when you go out. Watch the waves hit the shore and smoke enough pot to knock out a horse. But you’re still functioning on high and you just want to, for just one goddamn night, function on low. You end up at a bar. A bar with cheesy mermaids and a few scuzzy locals. A bar where no one knows you. And it feels. It feels like you can breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, damn. I think I just got to know Deran. 
> 
> I'm not a huge fan of using that much dialogue from the show in a work, but Deran is a hard nut to crack so using the scenes from the show for this work seems like a must right now. 
> 
> Pretty sure I have a plan. And I'm pretty sure it'll walk us through the seasons from the eyes of these two. And then I can get back to work on Waves after I've gotten deeper in their heads. And then I'll get my ass back over to the post-apo once I've gotten to know all the AK characters better :)
> 
> Oh, and if you're new to me - hi! I don't do fluff... but if you see any tags I missed (I don't do beta readers), then feel free to mention it. I feel like the show is tag enough for most things, but I've been accosted in the past by people who don't think the show itself is enough of a warning for the can of worms we're dealing with! And let's face it, the Codys are anything but fluffy and they are all just a giant can of worms, aren't they?


	3. Something Like Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You' are season two Adrian.

Something Like Pride

You managed to stay away. Or he managed to say away. You’re not sure which. Maybe it was a joint effort. Either way it’s been months since you’ve seen him. Though you’ve looked at his name on your phone at least a million times and thought about dialing. Or texting. Or something. Just to know you’re still alive, he’s still alive. Not that the phone would help with Smurf forcing them to change their numbers every five minutes. Even if it’s just some kind of friendship this time. He might be a possessive, mostly psychotic asshole, but he’s still yours. Your whatever he is. He’ll always be your whatever. Even when you try not to let him. He’s gotten in your head, under your thin layer of fleshy armor, and his whispers still sit heavy on the back of your neck. Heavy with the promises of all you could have had, if you’d just told him, just said you’d stay. You’d stay in Belize forever if it meant all those whispers were true. 

You find yourself looking for him at the beach. Every guy with long blond hair is him, but none of them are because you’d know his form on a board from a million miles away. You don’t even see Craig. 

So you focus. You focus on work. You focus on surfing. The one thing you’ve always known. The one thing that’s always been there for you. You focus on surfing even when surfing lets you down. And it lets you down. It lets you down enough times that you start thinking it’s time to go back to school. It’s time to listen to your douchebag dad and do something with yourself already. 

You spend more and more time alone. Avoiding isn’t the word. Maybe introverting. Maybe that’s what it can be called. Spending some time getting to know yourself and trying to understand the thoughts that are often jumbled in your mind. The only time they’re clear is on a board. Or with Deran. Fuck. 

You end up at the bar. Because you heard it was reopening. And you figured, might as well check it out, even if it’s some piece of shit from out of town opening some hipster home-brewed whatever that’s opening up all over Oceanside now. 

You end up at the bar and you feel like an outsider in the world you grew up in. Around the people you grew up with. Because you’ve been gone, you’ve been surfing and sucking at it, you’ve been home and hiding, you’ve been doing everything you can to avoid the way you feel. And you feel like shit. You feel like shit because he’s gone and you forced him to be gone and you can’t regret that because he made his choices and you made yours and you had to take some damn time to figure it out. But the only thing time did was make you miss him. The only thing time did was make all those words become more and more clear in your ears. Like some kind of mantra running around in your rattled brain every time of every day and soon enough, ‘you’re the only thrill I’ve ever had’, is all you can think. It’s like the beat of your heart and the pattern of your breath and every time you get a whiff of the ocean you think of him. And every time you feel the sand beneath your bare feet you think of him. And every time you run your hand over your board you think of him. And every time you look at the waves and the blue watery depth of the ocean, you see his eyes. And every time you see his eyes, they promise, I am the moon and you are the ocean. I will always control you. Even when I’m not visible. 

You tried dating. You felt like you had to look over your shoulder for Pope. Or Deran himself. You felt like you had to come with a disclaimer on every first date. You slept with one guy. You slept with two guys. And they didn’t feel right. They didn’t have a beard to tickle your face and they didn’t roll into you in that way that made the world feel like it was splitting in two and they didn’t breathe against the back of your head and they didn’t hold onto your hips like they were afraid you were going to walk away. And they never whispered, ‘you’re the only thrill I’ve ever had,’ and you never thought they were pathetic and you never thought they were sad and you never thought they were scared.

You slept with a third guy. You maybe ducked when he reached for your head when you were sucking his dick. And he maybe thought you flinched a little too hard. And he wanted you to talk. He wanted to understand why you flinched when all he was trying to do was run his hand through your hair. And there was no way in Hell you were going to tell him why. But you did. You told him the whole damn story like it was yours to tell. And you told him about him. About him. About Deran Cody. And while you were talking to this stranger you met at a surf in Hawaii and decided to take back to your room. And he didn’t know Deran and he didn’t know you. But after you spilled your guts to him instead of sucking his dick, he reached out and ran his hand through your hair and he smiled and he said, “sounds like you’ve got some unfinished business and man, if I was you, I’d never meet up with him alone,” he sighed then, mentioned nonchalantly, “people can change. People change all the time. They just have to want it for themselves. Not for anyone else,” and he showed you the coin he had in his shorts pocket. A sobriety coin, “two years,” his smile was a little sad and a little proud.

And now you’re standing in a bar back in Oceanside where you grew up and you feel like an outsider. But you’re here and you recognize faces and you say hi to a few people but when you’re waiting for a bartender, you’re not ready for the one you get. He looks different. How has so much time passed the you actually notice he looks different? God, he looks different. It stings. Because in all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never thought he looks different. Never once. Every difference has happened day by day in front of your face. Not this. Not like this. God, that hair. That hair, is, it’s intense. That’s a lot of hair. And he looks thicker? He looks thicker, maybe. Not fat. You’re certain he’ll never be fat. Not at any point in his life. He’d never even be that old man with a beer gut. 

“What’s up Adrian?” he’s acting almost nervous. Is he nervous? You’ve seen nervous on him, and this is it. It’s not something he ever was before competitions and you always envied that of him. But this, this is nervous even if he’s trying to hide it.

“You bartending now?”

He leans forward, those eyes, those eyes with something like pride in them, “I own the bar,” and that smile, that smile with something like pride.

But, “how much did Smurf give you to buy the place?” because she had to. If one of her boys has something, she’s behind it. This must be a front for whatever other illegal shit they’re into. 

That smile is getting genuine, and it steals the breath from your lungs, “got nothing to do with her.”

You look around now. Because if you keep looking at him, you might actually have to smile too and you don’t want that. Not yet, “wow,” and it’s true. If what he said is true.

“I would’ve given you the news but,” now his eyes dart around and won’t meet yours, “you kinda made it clear that you didn’t wanna hear from me,” they land, and they hold. 

And you should probably say something. Something real, and you should probably say you’re proud. Because if it’s true, and it’s true because Deran has done a lot of shit and he’s lied to a lot of people but he’s never lied to you. But you’re stuck staring at him, at the honesty and the happiness. That is happiness. That is what happiness looks like and suddenly you realize that every part of your body is pins and needles like it was on those mornings in Belize. Those mornings when you would wake in uncomfortable positions, the same one you feel asleep in, and you never moved because he was comfortable like that and it was the only time you’d maybe ever seen him comfortable. So you couldn’t bear to move.

“Anyway, what to you want, what can I get ya?” he taps the bar and his hair, god, his hair, it’s…

“Speech, speech,” her. 

Her. 

You can see the fear, the disappointment, the anxiety, the discomfort take him over and turn him into a stone wall for just a split second when his eyes meet yours. You hate that. And you hate her. You hate her for using her sons for all the things she’s always used them for. And torturing them. Forcing them to retreat to her every time they get scared. Forcing them to be scared. Forcing them into humiliation whenever she can. 

You want to reach for him, you want to touch him just to ground him before all eyes are on him. But you can’t. 

You want to stay. To be here for him. But you can’t. You can’t watch this. You can’t watch her. You can’t stand here and watch this without going after her. Or touching him. 

—————

You still don’t see him. In any of the usual spots. You’re not looking, you swear you’re not looking for him every time you go out. Then one day, he’s standing in the shop. And he’s got some lame excuse for seeing you, but you see right through hit. If it wasn’t in his voice then it was in his eyes, it was in the set of his shoulders, that it was all just an excuse to see you, to catch up. You’ll save him the humiliation. Because of all the things you’ve wanted for Deran Cody, humiliation is not one of them, especially when you’re alone together, “drinks. Your bar. Tonight,” and you feel yourself smile. It feels natural. Being a room with him feels natural. Almost like it used to.

You hear him laugh when he’s talking to his bartender. When you walk in. It’s all the way across the bar, and your stomach does a flip and a film of sweat immediately rises on your palms. His laugh. You missed his laugh.

And you missed this, this guy that you can sit at a bar table with, have a beer, have a conversation. He’s being open, honest. He’s being some of the things he was in Belize. He’s being something you haven’t seen in so long you nearly forgot it existed. Calm. He is being calm.

But Mark Liston? Really? That guy is such a pretentious ass. Jesus, but at least it means he’s putting himself out there. He’s seeing a guy instead of pretending to like girls. He’s seeing a guy, and something inside you hurts at that. Your back teeth feel a little like they’re floating, you bite it down, you are the one that pushed him away. You are the one that made him walk away. You are the one that couldn’t handle being the only object of his psychotic affection. So now that someone else is, now that there’s another man, you can’t get jealous. You are not allowed to get jealous. Even if part of you thought you’d always be the only man. 

It doesn’t help that you can picture Mark, in your head, you can picture him kissing your Deran. Damnit, he’s your Deran. He always has been. Maybe your Deran just needs a friend now though. Maybe that’s enough. 

But you wonder, “you think your brothers will let you?” when he talks about getting out. Yeah, Deran has changed, and as far as you can tell it’s for the better and it was his decision to do it, but that doesn’t mean his family has just ceased to exist.

—————

You’re not ready. He’s not ready. It’s still there, right there in the air between you. Settled on the bar, the bar between you where you keep distance, a solid immovable thing between you. Every time you see him. But he smiles, he smiles, and he laughs, and it takes you back. You’re always going back.

Maybe it’s time to go forwards. One more chance, one last chance at the tour. One last shot and then you’ll listen to your dad. Your lease is up, your job will always be here according to Tao. And school will always be here. And Deran? Deran will always be here too. You think. You know. And when you find the photo, you see him, you see that kid you grew up with. And you want to see him again. You want to see him again. You want him to be the last person you see before you take off. 

As much as you want to keep the photo, just to have something, anything of him that’s yours; you want him to have it. You want him to have that reminder of the kid you see when you look at him, of the man you’re seeing again when you look at him, of the human that has always been under that Cody shell, the human you have always loved. The human that has always given you the thrill you crave. The thrill you can’t live without.

—————

When you touch him, when your hand lands in his beard and you feel his jaw beneath it, it sparks. And this time when you kiss him, this time, the world does turn. It tilts on its axis and everything around you slides. But you have to go. And you have to let him go. At least this time, you let him go with a promise. A promise. Instead of a lie.

A promise, “I’ll see you when I get back.”

A promise that you have every intention of keeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So not a hell of a lot to work with for season two Adrian, but season two was a big one for Deran and I'm about halfway through writing it. So hopefully I'll have some time to finish it up soon :)
> 
> The more I write these two, the harder I'm falling. And yeah, I'm pretty sure he will always be Adrian's Deran. Even when they're apart...


	4. No Real Thrill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You' are season two Deran.

No Real Thrill

What’s more road-rash anyway? On a body of scars, of hurts and aches that’ll never stop aching. What’s more road-rash? 

You’d walk. You would walk right now if this job had gone the way it was supposed to go. You’d walk. And all ‘your empty threats’ wouldn’t be empty anymore. You’d be out that damn door and you’d never come back. 

Because you have this. You thought you’d have this. You were supposed to have this. These ugly mermaids and this sketchy building and you were supposed have this.

“I want to help you, kid, but it’s gotta be the full fifty. Or else. There’s nothing I can do.”

—————

Craig’s with you. Craig’s always with you. He just, if you can just keep him in line. Off the coke and convince him to grow the fuck up even just a little. Jesus, guess you’ll have to show him how to save a few bucks every month. Idiot. But, Craig’s with you. And Craig? You can tell him shit. 

You can tell him about the bar. You can tell him, ‘cause he’ll have your back. He’ll keep it quiet. He’ll do a job with you to get the last of the cash. He might be kind of an idiot, but he’s loyal. And he’s, under all that hairy manly giant high dudeness, he’s a good guy. An actual good guy. Maybe not when it comes to women, but when it comes to you. 

One more job, that’s all it’ll take. One more job and then you can get out. You can cut the cord. 

—————

“May we all get what we want. But never what we deserve.”

If you want it, you need to earn it. Not just take it. And if you deserve it, well, then it’ll come, it’ll find you. It always does. 

—————

She let you back into an apartment. But you don’t stay there. Not really. It feels too much like hers. Like something that’s hers. Just a place for you to keep your things. Until you get your own spot. That’s what it is. 

You crash on Craig’s couch sometimes. You sleep in the Scout. When you sleep. You don’t do much of that anyway. You’re pretty sure you’ve slept on the beach a few times. 

But you can’t go home. Home isn’t that place anyway. Smurf’s house. That’s not home. Home is gone. He’s gone, you forced him to leave you. But now? Now you can take something for yourself, you can make something of yourself. You can go legit. You can make your life one that maybe someday he’ll be interested in being a part of again. Any part. Even just a friendship. Anything. When you close your eyes at night, those moments that you actually try to sleep, you think of him. You think of Belize. Of his body in your arms. And you get up, you move, you keep moving. You have to. You don’t surf as much as you used to. Because surfing makes you think of him and you see him, you see him on every board and on every wave and on every face of every man on the ocean. 

But you don’t see him. You don’t see him around. 

You stare at his name on your phone screen. And you wonder. Wonder if you should just text. Or call. Or stop by. 

No. You can’t. He made that clear. He’s not yours. You’re not his.

You’re nothing to him. Because you can’t make him feel something he doesn’t.

—————

You feel. You think you feel. You think you feel something like self-worth. Maybe. Maybe when you’re talking to the guy about the liquor license and you’re honest for the first time in so long, you’re honest to someone other than Adrian, you’re honest. And the guy doesn’t throw it in your face or brush you off to the side or push you off the ledge. You’re honest. 

And it’s okay. It feels okay. It feels pretty damn close to good. 

—————

You’re honest. When you tell Smurf. Tell her you bought a bar. 

You ask her if she’s mad. You’re not sure why you care. Maybe because she’s still your mom. When you walked into her room it still smells like her and it looks like her and there are times, times that you can remember when her hand in your hair or her voice in your ear was comfort. Real comfort. Sometimes. 

“Do you want me to be?” it’s all a game to her. Every single part of your life is just a game to her. Every emotion is just a game to her.

“I’m opening the bar tonight,” you’re not sure, shit, you’re not sure, “so if you wanna come.”

And something inside you twinges with longing, longing for her acceptance even if you try to convince yourself not to want it, not to need it, not to hope for it. She nods, “‘course I would,” deep down you know it’s bullshit, it’s all just for show, but you believe it. You let yourself believe that she’s proud of you. That you can have this, and she can let you have this without making it something she gave you, without marking it as hers, without making it something that belongs to her because all the money you’ve put into it was earned off her jobs and she’s the one who trained you and she’s the one who let you live and gave you all the things you’ve ever had.

You’re honest when you tell Baz. Even if you don’t want to tell Baz, ‘cause it’s got nothing to do with him either. But he was here, so you tell him. And he’s an ass. He’s always an ass. But at least with him, you don’t need his approval. Or support. 

You’re honest. You are an honest guy. That’s a stretch. You’re going to be an honest guy. After just enough more, just enough more to buy the bar outright. Just enough to go legit. Then you’ll be an honest guy. 

—————

You might feel alive. You’re pretty sure you feel alive. With a place of your own. Opening tonight. And the crane jump, an apology from Baz. And it’s okay. You think you feel alive. And you think you feel okay. 

But there’s no thrill. No real thrill. Maybe there never will be again.

—————

She showed up. She actually showed up. And you knew you shouldn’t, but you let yourself feel it, you let yourself believe it, that she was proud of you. She said it. And you let yourself believe it.

And you need a minute. You need a minute to get yourself together. This is big. This is big. And they’re all here for it. You need to breathe. Or you’ll fuck this up. 

But, fuck, Craig. Goddamnit Craig. Snorting coke in the bathroom on opening night? Fucking Craig. You’re an honest guy now. You’re going legit. This is yours. This is yours and he doesn’t get to fuck that up for you. He doesn’t get to be the mess in the bathroom at the end of the night that you’re cleaning piss and shit off, he doesn’t get to be the guy he was when he was bringing you to surf comps. He doesn’t get to do that this time.

“What is wrong with you?” he wants to know. And you could stand here all night and list every single thing off. If he wanted to hear it. If he didn’t already know it. 

—————

It’s him. And your breath catches and your throat closes off and your heart is beating so hard you’re certain he can hear it when you ask him, “what’s up Adrian?”

And he hates you. He hates you. You can see it. Still.

You don’t blame him. 

The bar is between you and you don’t scare him from back here. And he almost looks, he almost looks like he believes you, he almost looks, he almost looks like he wants to stay. Hang out. Maybe this can be peaceful ground. Maybe this can be, this can be a friendship again, he can be your surfing buddy, you can hang out. You can, you can almost breathe when you look at his face and he’s looking around the place. He’s real. He’s right there in front of you and he’s real. He’s not running away or pushing you away or making you feel so small.

“Speech, speech, speech.”

And your world is still here. It’s still here. All around you and all inside you and everywhere. And you can’t escape it. Even here. 

Your life will always belong to her. She’ll make sure of that.

It blurs. It all blurs. Adrian’s face on the other side of the bar. Smurf’s voice. Every single person in here. It blurs. It all gets drowned out by the rushing in your ears and the tightness in your chest and that guy from ESPN and you can’t fucking do this. You can’t do this. 

Your palms are sweaty and you’re suffocating again. 

You’re choking. Just like she knew you would.

—————

You’re not sure what comes over you. Maybe it was the freedom, the independence of the bar that she took from you, that she had to shit all over. That she had to mark with her presence when all you wanted from her was some support. All you wanted from her was some love. You wanted a mother. That’s all you’ve ever wanted from her. A mother. 

But, “you never loved me. You never loved any of us. It’s all about you. It’s always been about you.”

It’s true. You know it’s true. She doesn’t even argue it. She doesn’t even try to pretend that you’ve ever been anything more to her than a mouth to feed and job to run. She doesn’t. She doesn’t love you.

And, ‘it’s gonna be okay baby,' has been a lie. It’s been a lie all your life. It’s always been a lie. And you’re sick and fucking tired of lies.   
She doesn’t love you. But you’re bound to her for the rest of her life. You’re programmed to love her. She programmed you to love her. Biology and evolution and however many thousands of years have built humans to love their mothers, those things can’t just be undone. You can’t just buy a bar and start being honest and hope you’ll stop loving her when she shits on that. You can’t just unwind the cord that’s been wrapped around your neck since Pope delivered you on the floor of a gas station. And you don’t know what to believe and you don’t know who to believe and you can’t believe her. When she says it’ll be okay. Because it’s never going to be. It never has been. It never will be.

You don’t go back inside. Not into the noise and the crowd. You know Adrian is gone anyway. And you’re glad for that. You don’t want him to see this. Any of this. 

You sit in the office. Smoke a joint. Drink a beer. And wait ’til closing time. You wait. Wait until it’s all over. This was supposed to be a good night. This was supposed to be your night. This was supposed to be something you’d remember for the rest of your life. 

But she had to take that too. She took competitive surfing. She took school. She took your friends. She took Adrian. And now? This too. 

Then there’s Craig. Coming back with his tail between his legs, even though he’d never apologize, he’ll sort of mention it, he’ll act like he never did anything wrong. And it won’t change. How many times can a person apologize for pulling the same shit over and over and never actually change? But at least he always comes back. He’s Craig. He’ll always need you. You hate that. But he’s reliable. He always comes back. 

“That’s what it’s all about. Givin’ up somethin’ to chase something awesome,” he tells Nicky. And you wonder, what do you have? What do you have to give up? What do have to give up to chase that something awesome? The only something awesome that’s ever been in your life. The thrill. The only thrill.

Craig’s the one, he’s the one holding your shoulder and telling you, reminding you, “you bought a bar. And you opened it tonight. You did that.”

You suppose you’ll never know what it’s like to have a father’s hand on your shoulder. Or a mother’s hand on your shoulder, not a real mother. 

“She knows she had nothin’ to do with it. And she hates that.”

But, you’ve got Craig. And you’ve got a bar. 

“This is all yours. This is all you. You need to know that. K?”

It’s better than nothing. 

“C’mon man, I can’t do this alone,” putting up the boards, but you knew that about him. You’ve always known that about him. He can’t do anything alone.

—————

You know what you’re good at. Stealing cars. Playing the part. You know what you’re good at. So you do what you’re good at. You know what you’re good at. You’re good at dealing with Craig. At keeping him in line enough that he doesn’t get anyone killed. And with any luck, he won’t OD on your watch. You know what you’re good at. So you do what you’re good at. 

“I’m just worried about you bro. That’s what I do. I look out for you,” that’s what Craig has to say about it. 

And you know that’s true. You know it is. But he stepped out, he decided not to do this job. And you can’t control that. But you don’t need his negativity either.

“You wanna get pissed off at somebody, take a look at yourself in the mirror,” sometimes you hate that you’re the one he relies on. You can barely rely on yourself. You don’t need his giant ass relying on you too, “I’m sick of this shit,” because you don’t want to be the one who finds him dead in your storage space.

—————

Fuck. Maybe he is going to die on your watch. Not your problem. Not right now. Not in the middle of a damn job that he stepped out on.

They want to use the bar, they want to use your bar. For laundering. But they don’t get it. You bought the bar to put some distance on. You bought the bar to go legit. You bought the bar for freedom. And they don’t get that. They don’t get it that you aren’t them. And you aren’t Smurf.

And you have Craig. And he’s a mess. And even if he’s not your problem, he’s still your problem and you’ll always worry about him even if you never say that. You’d never say that. It comes out as things like, “what happened to your bike?” and, “I texted you like, ten times.”

And his worry for you and your freedom comes out as, “I got the job. Our way in. The yacht heist.”

—————

They suck you back in. Every time you think you can put her in the freezer and forget about her, she brings you back in. She brings you back in because she has shit from her past that threatens your future. And this is how it works. This is how your life will never be your own.

“Do you have any idea what your life would have been like if I had taken a murder rap when you were five years old?”

“Yeah,” well you have an idea, “foster care would have been better than this shit,” maybe you’d’ve gotten lucky. Had one of those nice families. You know, the kind that care about the kids under their roof.

“You think so? I’ll tell you about it some time.”

Of course. Of course she knows what foster care is like. And of course, of course, she had the worst of the worst. And it made her the worst of the worst and maybe she hates you and she did things to you, things a mother should never do, and maybe that’s why. Because she never had a real mother either. But at least, at least in foster care, you can walk out when you’re eighteen and never have to go back.

After all of that, after she expects you to kill for her, after all of that. She is still your mom. And these are still your brothers. And they could throw you to the wolves if they wanted to.

—————

“Remember when we were kids, we used to fight over the Gameboy? Smurf would make us hit each other over and over again until one of us quit?”

Maybe she always kept a roof over your head and shoes on your feet but if you killed each other, she would have been proud. You’re probably the lucky one, Craig never would have killed you. Even if he was twice your size.

“You know it’s funny, Smurf is always talking about how we have to have each other’s backs. But she loved when we fought.”

The worst thing you can do to her is love each other more than you love her.

And just like that, you become an accessory to murder. Just that easy. Just like that for Baz and Smurf to kill Javi and rope you all in. Rope you all back in. 

—————

You have your own place. It might be an office in a dive bar, but it’s your own place. And you can be yourself here. Maybe you can’t fuck Adrian away, but you can fuck other guys. In a place that doesn’t reek of her perfume and stink of her presence and echo with her voice and ghost her hands on your body. In a place that smells like you. And saltwater. And sweat. And maybe you should shower from time to time. But Mark doesn’t complain. The beach showers will do. 

Mark’s kind of a tool, “it’s called a compliment. Means you’re good in bed,” he’s certainly not Adrian, but it’s better than trying to pretend you like girls. And, sure, that’s a compliment you’ll take. He’s kind of a tool, but he’s got some business connections that you don’t have to use Smurf for, and that’s just fine with you. It’s also just fine with you when he kisses you before he leaves. 

You saw him once. Adrian. When you weren’t looking. You swear you weren’t looking. But you saw him. Surfing. Of course. It’s the first time you were down there in awhile. The spot that you’ve always associated with him. With Adrian. That’s why you haven’t come down here lately. You hoped he didn’t see you. You hoped he didn’t see you watching him. 

Watching him. Before you left. Without waving. Without texting him. You can’t yet. He can’t yet. You know that. 

—————

But you do stop by the Real Surf. You know he’s working there again. Of course you do. It’s not really an excuse to see him, you have a real issue, one he can fix easily. Maybe you could fix it easily too, but, it’s his job. This is just business.

“Drinks. Your bar, tonight.”

Your heart thuds. So fucking hard that you know it registers on your face. 

He’s easy. He’s so easy. You missed him. Fuck, you missed him.

“We’ll get to catch up,” there’s a half-smile. He’s not afraid of you. You’re alone with him and he’s not afraid of you.

And maybe your hands are a little shaky, just a little shaky when you turn the engine, but you’ll never admit that to anyone.

—————

“I don’t believe in sorry. Sorry is cheap. If you want something to mean anything, it’s gotta cost.”

Maybe she’s right. You guess you’ll find out later. If he shows up. If sorry does mean something. Anything. To him.

—————

“Mark Liston?” he’s not jealous. Or mad. You’re not his. You know that. That’s okay. You were friends first anyway. You were friends for so long. Before you fucked that up in Belize, “guy is a total asshole,” maybe he is jealous. But you’re not going to make it a thing. ‘Cause he’s not yours.

“As soon as I make enough money to buy this building, I’m going legit.”

He looks like maybe he believes you. He looks like maybe it’s okay. Like maybe it’s all okay. But, “you think your brothers will let you?”

Of course he wonders that. And you don’t know how to answer.

But he’s here. And he’s not afraid of you. And that’s a start.

—————

If you don’t use your bar, then you have to go to her. And you don’t have anyone else to handle the jewelry. Shit. It’s just for now. It is just for now and then you’re out. You’re done. It’s better than tarnishing your bar. Your life is already tarnished, she can’t do any worse than she already has.

—————

You pulled it off. You and Craig. You pulled it off. And no one got hurt. 

And that feels pretty close to freedom.

This time when the kid walks in on you sucking a dick, you couldn’t give less of a shit. Doesn’t matter. This is your place. This is you. You are gay. It isn’t just Adrian. 

Doesn’t mean you don’t wish it was Adrian. 

—————

You sort of wonder if you conjured him. When you set the beer beside his elbow, “hey,” you hope it sounds chill. But you’re nearly certain you can’t do ‘chill’ around Adrian. 

He brought you something. And he wants to go somewhere quieter. You hold your breath the whole way to the office. He’s not here for sex. You know that. He’s your friend now. He’s been around a few times. Stopping by for a beer after a day of surf, just staying for one, just being near you. For just a little while. But it feels. It starts to feel. Every time you see him smile.

“I found it when I was packing,” it’s a photo. You remember that wave. You remembered it immediately when he set it down in front of you.

But you can’t focus on anything other than, “packing?”

“Uh yeah, taking one last shot at the QS.”

It catches in your chest. He’s leaving. Now that things seem okay, it finally felt like you could breathe again, he’s leaving. 

You’re happy for him. It’s true, he’s good enough. You know that. Even if he gets nervous and blows most comps ‘cause he can’t get out of his head. But one last shot? Shit, you want to go along. You want to burn this bar to the ground and go along. 

You remember how that felt. To think you had something of your own. Surfing, competing, winning, “that’s the last time I won,” and Adrian. You had Adrian back then. 

“Lately you seem like that again.”

“Like what?”

“Like that kid I grew up with.”

It stings as much as it feels better. If you look at him, you’re afraid you’ll feel too much. You’ll push too hard. And you’ll fuck this up. Again. You can’t fuck this up again.

His hand is on your face, against your cheek before you can process it, before you can overthink it he’s leaning in. His lips are warm. Reassuring. They linger. Your heart tries so hard to crack your ribcage. You can’t speak when he turns, when he pulls away. 

You don’t have to. He smiles. That’s all you need.

“See you when I get back.”

And you breathe.

——————

This will never get any easier. You will never dig your way out of this hole. And every time you do, one of your brothers or one of their girlfriends or your mother will just throw more dirt on you.

Some kidnapped kid that Craig brings in. 

You could have left. You could have taken off with Adrian. You could have taken one last shot at the QS. You could have taken one last shot with him. And if you put some distance on, if you put more distance on, maybe it would be different this time. Maybe it would be different.

Because here, even in this safe place, this one safe place that is yours, even here your family can touch you and they will touch you and, “I can’t believe I have to deal with this shit for the rest of my life.”

He thinks you’re talking about surfing. He thinks you’re talking about your childhood. He thinks you’re talking about how he took care of you. When you were kids, he took care of you. But, “one of these days you’re going to end up dead,” and that scares the hell out of you. Because Craig, he’s the only one you trust, he’s the only one who cares, “I can’t spend the rest of my life making sure that doesn’t happen. So as soon as I get enough money to buy this place I’m out. I’m serious. I’m done.”

Because you don’t owe him the rest of your life. You don’t. Even if he did the things for you that no one else would do. You can’t keep doing this. Neither can he. 

You could have left with Adrian. If he’d have let you. You could have left with Adrian. Instead you get stabbed in the leg by some little frat boy asshole that you don’t even know what you’re s’posed to do with. Just another fucking day in the life.

“You really want out?” Craig wonders when you’re waiting to see what this kid’s fate is. 

You think he might be talking about the family. Out of the family, and, “yeah,” because it’s all or nothing with Smurf. It always has been.

You’re pretty sure you’ll hear that kid hollering, “help,” for the rest of your life.

Some chick that Baz is banging, turns out she’s into some shit, probably cartel. Isn’t that cute? And now you know and she knows you know. And you know cartels are much more than you care to deal with.

——————

It doesn’t help that Baz is losing his fucking mind. Stealing from Smurf, or from all of you, or however that all worked. If she was stealing from you, then she had a reason for it, right? She had to have a reason to be sitting on it. She had to have some kind of plan. Maybe she was just holding it for a time when all of you were responsible enough to have that kind of cash. Maybe it’s just, maybe she’s, shit. She never loved you. She only used you. She used you and she’ll never stop using you.

She’ll figure out a way to use you long after she’d dead and buried. Won’t she?

And he got her thrown in jail? And he doesn’t think she’ll turn them in, he doesn’t think that she’ll just roll on them? In a fucking heartbeat. She never cared about any of you. What’s to stop her from handing all of you over on a silver platter? 

And he’s moving to Mexico with some cartel chick. Maybe you should tell him. You’re not fucking with cartel. No way. Even if he is your brother.

“No contact with Smurf. Deal?”

She’s your mom. And Baz is, Baz is just like her. But Baz isn’t your mom. Baz has never been in it for anyone but himself either. He can’t even be in it for his kid. How could you trust him? You can’t. You cannot trust him.

Jesus, why didn’t you just ask Adrian if you could come along with him? Leave this shit behind you and let it all destruct. You could have done that. 

—————

“No more mind games, no more backstabbing, wonder how that’d’ve felt,” Craig’s not the only one that wonders that shit. You’ve been wondering it all your life. 

He wants to leave, you want to leave. But you can’t. You can’t leave the bar. The one thing you have. The one thing you still have. The one thing you know you have and you control. The only thing you’ve ever controlled.

——————

She says it’s rainy day money. And there’s more. That Baz is holding out. You believe her. You don’t know who to believe, but you know Baz is a liar. You’ve known all your life he’s a liar. But so is she. Is J? Maybe there’s still time to keep J out of it, to keep him away from Baz before he can ruin what’s left of him. 

You don’t know who to believe. You’re not sure if you care. You just want your cut, you just want to stay out of prison, you just want the cash to buy your bar, and you just want out. You just want out. Why is that so fucking hard?

There’s still Craig, you can’t just turn your back on him, he’s your brother. And he’s the only one who cares. You wonder if you’re the only one who cares about him.

“In the whole goddamn world, you’re the only person I trust,” but you already knew that about Craig. And he already knows it goes both ways so you don’t need to bother telling him that.

——————

You don’t have an option. You have to launder through the bar. All your options are gone. And you have a shit-ton of cash that means nothing until you launder it. 

So what? What now? Your safe place, your only thing, the only thing you control is gone now. It’s part of the family business now. It’s not yours anymore.

Adrian was right the whole time. You’ll never get out.

—————

You can’t go to a family meeting unarmed now. Jesus, this is what your life has become. Or maybe it’s always been and you were just too blind to see it until now. 

Baz is Smurf. Holding out on you. Lashing out at you. Using threats and rubbing your own actions in your face. Turning you into the bad guy. Making it all your fault. You weren’t strong enough. You weren’t strong enough to put your own mother in jail.

What the fuck kind of strength is that?

Of course you ran every chance you got. Of course you’re the runner. You run because you can’t handle this fucking family but you can’t run far enough to get away. You never could. You never can. And you’re not cut-throat and cold-hearted enough to take them out, so you withstand it. You’ve always just withstood it and you wonder when it’ll be too much. When it’ll all be too much. When you’ll actually leave, when you’ll leave for good. How far would you have to go to make it far enough? How long would you have to be gone to make it long enough?

——————

Pope’s weird. He’s always weird. Of course this would make him weirder. You’re not going to say no, you’ve never been good at telling him no, even if you don’t like Lena. But it’s not like she’s got anyone else. Her mom’s dead most likely. Her dad’s a piece of shit and does anyone believe him when he says he’ll take her to Mexico? So if something happens to Pope, she needs someone. 

He would just beat you into agreeing if you didn’t agree first. Then stare at your shoulder like he’s trying to think of a way to say something to you, or maybe he’s trying to recognize that tattoo, or maybe decipher it, but you’re pretty sure you got that one while he was locked up anyway. Either way, he pats your shoulder and leaves. 

And now that promise, taking care of Lena, now it’s just another reason you have to stay. You have to stay here. No matter what your heart wants. No matter how badly your skin is itching and your legs are burning and your mind is spinning, and you can’t make it stop. You never could make it stop. The only time it ever stopped was in Belize. And Belize was a long time ago. It was simple then. 

Now Craig’s leaving. And it’s not simple, ‘cause, “the whole world is upside down,” and he’s right. It is. But if you leave, then what happens to Lena? Then what happens to Pope? Then what happens to the bar? And what happens when Adrian comes back and you’re not here?

You’re certain the next time you see Craig it’ll be on a slab. But you can’t make him stay. 

It feels like too much is ending. Like everything is ending. 

—————

Something is ending. But it’s not everything. Baz. Baz is dead. You’re not sure how you feel about that. Maybe you’re not supposed to be sure. The only thing you’re sure of, is you won’t end up like that. You won’t end up like him. You won’t end up like her. 

Maybe there is no way out. Maybe there never will be. Maybe the only way out is death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can be honest here - Craig stole our hearts immediately, Pope scared us and we needed to know more about him from the jump, we felt bad for J before he started to feel more like sandpaper than a human being, Baz? Meh, he was doomed from the start, right? But it was in season two that Deran snuck up on us and made us root for him so hard. 
> 
> I feel like it was pretty clear from the beginning that Deran was dealing with some anxiety issues, but I didn't realize until I wrote season one that he was also dealing with depression issues and maybe it was situational depression. But it felt like it started creeping in again in the end of season three after Billy left. So maybe not situational depression? I know there are subcategories of depression and I am not a psychiatrist obviously :) He's not SAD like me, I don't think SAD is a possibility in So Cal... maybe persistent depressive?
> 
> I don't know. It's interesting the things you can see more clearly about a character you've been watching for a few years when you finally decide to grow a pair and start writing them :) Season three was definitely big for both of these guys, so those ones will probably be pretty damn wordy when I get to them. Thanks for reading! Leave me kudos and if you want to chat it up, feel free...


	5. A Real Place To Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrian Season 3

A Real Place To Live

You make good on that promise. You do. You have to. Maybe because he’s all you’ve thought about when you thought about home. When you were off riding the waves you always dreamed of riding, he was the one thing you thought of when you thought of home.

And, he looks different again. It stings again, but at least this time you knew, you knew he’d look different. It’s not just the hair either. 

He sounds different too, he sounds confident. Confident in his place, in his bar, with his employees and he looks like he’s at home here. Here in his bar. He looks like home. 

When he tells you he’s fine, you nearly believe him. And his eyes, god, his eyes in this light and his voice, the sound of his voice doing all the things to you it’s always done. Or maybe the things it used to do. Or maybe, fuck, he looks so much like Deran. But he sounds so different. And he acts so different. And maybe this is Deran. Maybe this is the Deran all along that you’ve loved and it took the possessive scary prick he turned into to make you see this Deran again. To make this Deran take over, this Deran you knew when you were a kid. 

You’re the one who reaches out first. You have to be. You know he won’t do it. Not anymore, not since you forced him away from you. Or did he force you away from him? Does it matter anymore?

“Yeah you should probably go,” he’s looking at your lips and your hand is on his face and your heart is in your throat or maybe it’s in his hands, you’re not even sure anymore. You test it, just a tiny kiss, both hands on his face, just to see if maybe he still tastes the same but you’re not sure if you should stay or if you should go. Until you draw back and he reaches out. He pulls you back in that easily and you can’t remember, and you can’t imagine a time when he wasn’t pulling you back in. He’s always been the moon. And you’ve always been the only thrill he’s ever had.

And now, now when his hands are on your head and he’s holding you in place to kiss you, really kiss you, and you’re sliding his shirt off his shoulders and he’s sliding your shirt off your shoulders, you’re wondering if he feels different. If he feels different under your hands. One thing is obvious, his hair won’t tickle your spine when he kisses his way up your back.

He shoves you away, “wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” it sounds playful while he’s catching his breath, “I thought you said you had to go,” he tilts his head, and you’re in charge, aren’t you? You’re in charge and he’s making that very clear as he’s removing his undershirt. Your eyes scan his body, each space as it becomes bare and it’s everything you remembered and everything you memorized. It’s lean and bronze and gold and your breath is getting heavy again and your heart is thudding so fucking hard you’re certain he can hear it.

You smile, you feel yourself smile. You’re in charge here. 

“‘Cause I don’t know about you,” he’s nonchalant, like it doesn’t matter one way or the other to him, but he knows, he knows if he takes off his pants that he’s got you. That it doesn’t matter who’s in charge anymore, that it’s not about that anymore. That once you make the decision to stay, once you make the decision to follow him, or go after him, that none of that matters anymore, “I was just gonna get naked and hang out in the back but,” the pants are on the floor and his hand is rising, left hand, two fingers, you know what those two fingers are capable of, “if you have to go.”

“Shut up,” it’s broken and whispered because it’s hard as hell to speak around your heart beating in your throat and you’re reaching for him, and walking into him, and grasping him and his arm snakes around your shoulder and he’s stepping back and you’re moving forwards and his hands are half-steering you towards the couch and yanking your undershirt off.

It doesn’t take long before you’re back in sync. You’re in a different place with another different Deran but it’s a safe Deran and he’s bending you over the couch and his lips are tracing down your spine and you’re wondering how you managed the last months without him while everything in this room is disappearing except his mouth and his hands. 

—————

You sort of woke up when he got up. The mattress is tiny, the attic is strangely clean, and you wonder if he ever sleeps up here anyway. You sort of woke up when his arms unwound themselves from your body and he waited. You felt him watching you for a moment like he was waiting to see if you were awake. Or maybe he was watching you sleep. You were certain of the latter when he ran a hand over your arm and kissed the back of your head before he left. 

It was different last night. It was different bent over the couch and it was certainly different by the time you made your way up here. And you kept smelling Belize, hearing the ocean’s waves and his whispered admissions, ‘you’re the only thrill I’ve ever had’, and you wonder if that’s still true. And for the first time in your life you start to wonder what other men he’s been with. He has every right to be with other men when you’re gone, you’re not a thing, he’s not ready for a thing, a real thing. You’re not ready for a thing. You made it clear that you didn’t want him when you said, ‘you can’t make me feel something I don’t’, even if it was a lie. 

It was different last night when you got up here and he leaned over you and he settled between your legs and he kissed your neck. And it was different when he just kind of stayed there and watched you. He watched your face like he wanted to know every single line and every single pore and every single whisker and maybe you should have shaved yesterday morning but it’s not like he’d ever done that before and you aren’t exactly the kind of guy that gets a five’ o’clock shadow and you get the feeling that he doesn’t care, that he wouldn’t care what you looked like or how you were built, he only cared what you were feeling every time he moved. 

You said his name like it was just breathing, like his name was the only breath in your lungs. Like his name was the only word in your head. Like his name was the one thing you were holding onto. And maybe it was.

You only come downstairs when you smell breakfast. And you get down here and tell him he needs a real bed and he’s still shirtless, cooking you breakfast. He is cooking you breakfast. He is so at home here, isn’t he? And he’s smiling. And every word is light. Every motion is easy. God, maybe Deran just needed a home, a real home, a place of his own. Maybe that was all he needed.

But he needs it just a little longer before you can be certain. Even if he is making you breakfast and he’s making small talk, and he looks deeply offended when you tell him you’re not leaving, you’re not going to try your luck any longer, you’re not good enough. Because to him, you are good enough. You are good enough. 

“You’re too much in your own head.”

You know it’s true. Because he’s the one thing that’s always in your head. 

And he seems offended when you don’t want to take the food home. Maybe you should. Maybe the little things are the things that are important now. Maybe the little things that are huge things for him, maybe you should take the food. Or maybe you should stay. But you don’t want to stay, if you stay you’ll keep talking about the QS and he’ll talk you into trying again and he’ll do something stupid like sponsor you. And you’ll do something stupid like accept it and you’ll set yourself up for feeling like you owe him. And he’ll be in charge again. 

Or worse, you’ll tell him you’re staying because of him. Because you want to be with him. Always. 

So you make it sound casual. Because that’s how it needs to be. Even if your heart is rushing in your ears and your stomach is too twisted to eat the breakfast he cooked for you and it’s incredible, but you can’t sit here right now and make this all seem so real when it’s supposed to be casual. What’s one more broken heart between the two of you? The end, the end is what it would be. So you can’t stay right now. 

And shit, maybe you did break his heart by not eating his breakfast and shutting down his confidence in you. And maybe you can tell by the lame casual kiss he offers, or maybe this is what you’re asking for, even if it’s not what you truly want.

—————

Jesus, how long is he going to stand there and watch you surf? And why didn’t he bring his board? 

“That last set was pretty good.”

Yeah, that last set was for him, “as the creepy dude on the beach staring at the surfers, you should know that.”

“You belong on the tour.”

He watched you. He stayed up at night and watched you. And he remembers the stats. He’s an asshole. He’s an asshole with his heart in the right place. But maybe his heart is on his sleeve and you don’t know if you want that. 

Asshole. Why does he have to go and believe that shit now? Now, when you want to call it quits? Now, when you realize that home isn’t home, but it’s him and you want to be here with him. Even if it’s casual. 

And now he’s going to make the offer that you were afraid he’d make. You can’t take his family’s money. And you can’t take his money. And you can’t take his confidence. How is he so confident now anyway? How is he so confident now when you feel like the lightest wind would knock you over? 

“You don’t have to keep saying you’re sorry.”

He’s not hearing that part, “listen. If you quit now, you’ll regret it. Trust me.”

You know that. You know he regrets it. You know he regrets letting his family take that from him. Letting Smurf take that from him. So maybe you’re his chance. Maybe you’re the only chance he has left of making the tour. Because if you do it, then he did too, because he’s always been in your head every time you get on a board so why should that change now?

“I wanna do this for you. Let me.”

And you read between the lines. It’s a must if you stand a chance of understanding Deran’s language. 

And now it’s time to deflect, and break the seriousness while he waits for your response even though you both already know what it’s going to be, “don’t throw your life away on college.”

You laugh. You can’t help it, “that’s good advice,” but you both know you’re talking about the truth earlier. The part about regretting it. The part about regretting quitting now. 

He smiles. And god, you love that smile. You can’t deny anything when that smile is behind it.

——————

You also don’t deny him when he asks you later if you wanna stop by the bar at closing time.

——————

You did alright, you had some fun, you surfed well. It’s worth it. It’s worth it. You keep telling yourself it’s worth it. To be gone, to be chasing the dream. Even if it is on your boyfriend’s bill. Or your friend. Or your whatever he is. Your Deran. 

Is he still your Deran? You left it open when you left the bar that morning. That attic, that mattress is awful but you get the distinct impression that not many men have been entertained up there. Who the hell would agree to getting fucked in the attic of a bar? Unless you know the guy, know him well, and love, no, not love. It’s not love.

You’re not sure why you didn’t tell him you’d be home. Maybe you just got too caught up in all of it. In everything, being an uncle. Being halfway around the world and getting a call from your sister saying you’re an uncle and you damn well better show up and meet the kid. And the shit with Jack, but you’re not thinking about that. You’re not thinking about any of that, you’re not thinking about anything at all when you spot him. Him. And he’s, is he on a date?

You don’t watch for a minute. Not at all. That’s not why you pause. It’s not to watch. At first you think it could be a beer distributor or something. But that guy doesn’t look like a beer distributor. And Deran doesn’t look that into it, he’d be more interested if the guy was talking about beer. Right? Then the guy reaches out and touches his knee. Every organ in your body pauses. You’re certain of it. When your breath returns, it exits again and this time with, “Deran.”

Shit, you just interrupted a date. That was a date. Deran is on a date. In broad daylight. But he’s not on a date with you. Fuck, that stings. But, yeah, you’re proud. He’s out on a date in broad daylight with a guy you’re certain he’s not really interested in, but it’s not your damn business anyway ‘cause you’re just, “a surfer that I sponsor,” his hand lingering on your shoulder tells otherwise and this guy would be a blind moron to think that’s all it is. Especially since the idiot is smiling at you. Smiling at you. While he’s on a date with someone else. 

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” if you don’t walk away right now, this will get insanely awkward. It’s not like you dislike the guy he’s with. Clark Lincoln. He seems wholesome enough. And he seems, whatever, he’s probably a nice guy and it’s not your business because you’re the one that keeps pushing Deran away. 

But you’re certainly not going to push him away when he shows up at your place later. Date must not have gone that well if he’s here now. And using the door. Knocking on it. Whistling, “can I come in?” like a normal goddamn person. Finally. Wild, rabid, mostly feral and completely insane Deran Cody is acting like a human. 

He’s acting like a human with manners. But he’s still Deran, so it’s easy to admit, “the kid is so ugly, it’s crazy.”

And he laughs. And you’re certain you’ll die, that laugh, it’s been too long since you’ve heard that laugh. It feels like Deran. It feels like the Deran you’ve always known. And loved. No. Not love. 

But it’s Deran and he’s wondering about the coke. And you know he hates that shit, and he wants to chew you out for using it. But you’re not really using it. And you should tell him that. You should just come clean right now, right now. Tell him you’re smuggling it. That’s half the reason you’re back. Well, it’s the whole reason you’re back, it just so happens to coincide with Jess having a baby. And ordering you to come home. But, Jesus, Deran is finally starting to resurface and he looks so, damn, he looks so goddamn beautiful. You’re not going to talk to him about your extra income. He’ll do something stupid about it. He’ll do something, or he’ll get mad, or worse he’ll start trying to control you again. Even though you know this is stupid. You know it is. But you can’t ask Deran for more money. You don’t want to, and you don’t have a sponsor yet even if you made it to the quarters and that asshole saw. He watched. He’s such an asshole. Pretending to not care, pretending to be aloof and chill but you know it matters. It all matters. 

Of course you have to give him shit about Clark Lincoln. And about his chill facade being totally not chill at all. Damn that smile, that little blush and the complete inability to make eye contact when he’s being teased. 

“We always sucked at timing,” and a whole lot of other things too, but that’s not what this is about. His eyes are on you and you’re drowning. You’re certain of it, “how’s that goin’?” you can be a friend. You’re probably the only friend he’s ever had. You can be a friend. If you can’t be his lover, and you can’t be his partner, and you can’t be his boyfriend. You can be his friend. You can be his friend without getting jealous. You can. 

No you can’t. Not a chance. Not when his sneaky hand sneaks it’s way to the back of your neck. And you don’t lean out, or make any moves to show him you’re just a friend and friends don’t stroke each other’s hair. And friends don’t look at each other like that, and friends don’t, damn it his lips are warm. And your chest tightens. Heart picks up speed and you’re glad you didn’t snort anything more than just the taste Jack insisted you have, if you did, you’d certainly be choking to death on your own blood-pumping organ that is pumping blood to the wrong places for just friends. Just friends locked in a never-ending pattern of crossing the line well beyond friendship. But Jesus, it’s not like you can resist him. You never were good at that. 

Making out on the couch like a couple of teenagers and you realize he’s never done that. He’s never gotten to do that. Not with someone he actually wanted to make out with. The third time you come up for air you start to think you should remind him that he has a boyfriend. Or something. A ‘just having fun’ Clark Lincoln. And then you wonder when the last time was he was balls deep in that guy’s ass, no, that’s not yours to wonder. Deran’s not yours. But his hand on your chest, resting over your heart, like it’s controlling every single beat; is telling you otherwise. He’s the moon, after all. 

You’ve slid down the couch and he’s followed you, leaning over you and your lips are tender from his whiskers and you can’t remember the last time he kissed you for this long. If ever. You don’t want him to stop but he has a guy, some kind of guy, in his life. And you know about it. So if you know about it, then that makes you someone who is okay with cheating. Or cheating? They’re just having fun. They’re just having fun and you’re just, you’re just friends. And they’re just having fun. So, “Deran.”

“Hmm?” his face doesn’t rise from your neck where his lips have started trailing down to your collarbone.

You take a deep breath but it doesn’t calm the tingles that have risen, chasing up and down your spine, beginning under the pressure of his hand where it’s found it’s way under your shirt. 

Self control. Morals. Human decency. Those things are out the window when his fingertips press gently against your back, drawing you nearer. Fuck it, his relationship or ‘just having fun’ is his problem. Not yours. But you know what is yours? Deran. Deran is yours. He has been since you were kids. In some way or another. 

He’s certainly your Deran when you wake up the next morning to the feel of his skinny arm draped over your shoulder and his lips against your neck.

—————

He’s still your Deran when he’s fucking you like he wants you to know you’re his, bent over the couch in the backroom of the bar. Hands on your hips and sweat rising quickly. Midday, no one else around. He’s still your Deran when his hands land on your back and he pushes himself off with a grunt. He’s Deran with a few things on his mind. Things that weren’t on his mind the other night, the night that turned into morning that turned into afternoon before he left your place.

Your hand lands on his chest, patting a ‘good game’ against his rapid-fire-heartbeats before your eyes land on the riding gear. Your heart drops even though, “it’s okay man. I get it. I’m not here. And Linc is, life goes on,” even if you don’t believe it. You’re not sure life can go on without him. Or with him, knowing he’s with another guy. Another guy who doesn’t know your Deran. He knows Deran the bar owner who has a big brother who’s kind of an idiot and likes to set up dates for them, but he doesn’t know your Deran. Your Deran who’s mom just got out of jail and he hasn’t seen her.

And you don’t know this guy, “hey man, you got any smokes?” barging in like he owns the place.

You don’t know this guy but there’s something weirdly familiar about him, something in his face when his eyes land on you for a moment and he smirks, “he got that from me.”

Maybe you should thank him. It’s a nice dick. 

“I’m Billy. His dad.”

Oh. Yeah. That. Okay. Not awkward. Not at all awkward. Thanks for the head’s up Deran. Just a passing, ‘my dad is in town. That prick I’ve never met. Ditched me when I was a baby. Yeah. Him’. No big fucking deal. 

Then he’s gone. And you wonder what the fuck you’re s’posed to say about that. And Deran is fucking Deran and he’s not saying shit. He’s lighting a smoke, his eyes are on you, you can feel them burning a hole in the back of your head until you turn to look at him and he shrugs, averts his eyes, pretends he was never looking, “he just showed up.”

“Just now?” pulling your shirt on.

“Couple weeks ago.”

“And you…”

“Should’ve told you,” it’s mumbled, he opens the door, steps out into the daylight that seems too damn bright and you wish you could reverse all this to ten minutes ago, “just, don’t know what to think of it. Him, ya know? If he’s for real, or,” leaning against the wall, slow drag, exhale headed skyward. When his face turns, his eyes land on yours and your breath halts, “just,” shrug, “junkie. I don’t know. I don’t need another junkie in my life. Guess,” those eyes flit away again. 

No, he doesn’t need another junkie in his life. And he doesn’t need another criminal in his life. And you’re about to smuggle more drugs overseas for Jack. Fuck. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. 

His hand is rising with the smoke in it, but it’s not bringing the cig to his lips. His thumb is meeting them instead. Tucking into his teeth. Chomp. 

You cringe. And you stop yourself from taking his hand to get the tip of his thumb out of his mouth, “so, you, um,” it stalls and you’re not sure what you were going to say anyway. You’ve already watched him close himself back off, nothing you say now can force him open, “tell your dad thanks. You know, for passing on that dick,” you smile, so does he. He turns a little pink around the edges of his beard and you lean into him. For just a second, “see you later.”

—————

Later comes sooner than you thought. Or maybe later than you thought. Maybe you thought he’d be back that same damn night. Or at least text you.

But, he’s using his manners. Again, like a human being. Knocking on the door and waiting, asking, “can I hang out here for a bit?”

Forever. Really, if he’ll stay that long, “yeah.”

He looks rough. But not pissed off. Just kind of sad. And exhausted, “I didn’t have to be a Cody, ya know, I could just be a guy that owned a bar.”

Well, you’re not blind, you already knew it wasn’t a real thing with Linc, but you weren’t going to be the one to tell Deran that. That you’re the only thrill he’s ever had, and maybe ever will, “you’re not just a guy who owns a bar,” he’s a fucking complicated mess of human that you love. No. Not love.

“Yeah?” eyes that you want to spend the rest of your life looking into. Even when they’re defeated like this, and tired, and overwhelmed.

“Yeah.”

It’s almost like his mouth wants to smile, but it doesn’t. He lands in your lap and your instinct to kiss his head can’t be fought. He belongs there anyway. It’s just taking you both a long damn time to figure that part out. Though it doesn’t take long before his breathing is turning into sleep breathing. You’re not complaining. And you’re not about to move. 

You can smell Belize in the air around you when you close your eyes. You can remember his smile and his complete lack of self-consciousness, those moments when he forgot to be a Cody. Those moments with you, you’ve always known he’s not a Cody. Not in the true sense of it. But he’s so much more than just a guy who owns a bar. He’s always going to be. 

You don’t mean to, but you fall asleep with his head in your lap and your hand on his shoulder. When you wake, he’s gone.

—————

He didn’t ask you to come. But you did. You just felt weird, like something was off and you couldn’t place it. So you ended up at The Drop. He noticed you as soon as you opened the door and walked in. Through the crowd, his eyes landed on you and you knew he was the thing that was off. That feeling you had all day. You sat at the bar and drank the beer he won’t let you pay for. You drank it slow and you watched him while you pretended not to watch him. Him and that dark cloud hovering over him. 

You waited until after closing time. You watched him clean up, he didn’t argue when you helped. Then he grabbed you by the collar of your plaid and backed you into the wall. Staring at your lips for a long time, something pained in his eyes, but he wasn’t talking. You weren’t going to make him. You know better than to make him talk. 

All he offered against the back of your head once you got to the loft was, “Billy left.”

And you knew better than to ask. You knew he needed to think it out on his own. And if you asked, he’d only pretend he was fine, he was good. And you’d know it was a lie. And he’d know it was a lie. You’re not lying to each other anymore. Are you?

He was wide awake all night. You could feel him breathing on the back of your neck but his arms were lax, and he still wasn’t talking. So you let him. Silently breathe on you. It didn’t feel possessive or psychotic or any of the things that he sometimes felt before. It just felt like you were the only thing keeping him on this Earth. And that was okay.

And now? He isn’t cooking for you. And you knew you should have finished the last meal he made you. Or taken the damn to-go box he offered. 

And now, “you need a real place to live.”

“I’m good,” but he’s not. He’s not good about anything. But you know how to distract him. Distraction is good.

“Walk to work. Walk to surf.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

Fuck yes. All of it. 

Shit, now you’re lying again, “some big French board builder is going to float me through the South Africa events,” lying sucks, it sucks so much, but he doesn’t need more shit in his life and you certainly aren’t going to ask him for more money. If you can do it on your own, you will. And once you start getting noticed, you won’t need to work with Jack anymore. This is easy cash, just to get a start, just to get ahead, just to get out from owing your boyfriend money. Your friend. Your whatever he is. Your Deran. Because your Deran is overwhelmed, and not admitting it. He’s heartbroken over his father leaving even if he won’t admit it. And he, “would you do it?” is hollering from across the bar.

“Do what?”

“If I had a real place.”

“What about it?”

There’s a long pause, long enough that you wonder if you missed something key that was unspoken in that entire exchange. Or maybe he was talking to the back of your head last night and you were already asleep and he didn’t notice, but, “never-mind,” you hear the door swing shut. 

Uh yeah, that’s your Deran alright.

——————

He’s not here. He’s not at the bar. Kai doesn’t know where he is. You wait. And you pace. And you wait. And it’s closing time. He’s not answering texts. He’s not answering calls. 

Did Smurf make him change his number again? Did she get him killed this time? Is that what happened?

“I have to close up,” Kai tells you quietly, almost like she’s telling you he’s dead. You’re not sure what she knows about any of it, about her boss being a criminal. Or whatever he is. An almost reformed professional thief. Nearly honest. Almost straight-laced but probably using the bar for money laundering. 

“Yeah, sure. Can you just, um, if he…”

The door swings open, your heart thuds hard, too much blood is rushing in your ears but he somehow dismisses Kai. Locks the door behind her. And stares at you. 

You’re pissed, but your first reaction is, “you okay?” because you know that look on his face. You know that look and you know the undertow of his family that he’s been trying so hard to fight is winning, it’s dragging him back under.

“Fine,” but he’s not. And he’s not going to ask for any affection or any of that kind of shit, but since you’re standing here and since you’re walking towards him and since you’re in arm’s reach, he’ll lean into you. His head meets your shoulder, it’s heavy.

“Is everyone else okay?” your hand is on his back now. You might be squeezing kind of hard.

“Yeah.”

Silence. The sound of his breathing and the panic that was webbing itself around your throat is starting to lessen at the feel of his body against yours.

When he leans out, his hands find your face, they hold you exactly where you are like he’s afraid you’ll walk away before he can talk. You won’t. But, ‘you can’t make me feel something I don’t,’ lingers around you still. His eyes are cloudy and his grip is tight. He’s looking at your lips for a long moment, then shifting to meet your eyes, just a split second of full-on blue that takes your breath from your lungs, “would you, if I found a place on The Strand? Walk to work. Walk to surf. A shower. Would you live with me?”

Like a boyfriend? Or a friend? Or a, a whatever? A lover? A partner? A roommate? No, “yes.”

His lips are on yours. They’re not desperate. Not at first. Doesn’t take long before they are. So are his hands. His desperation spreads. When you go for his shirt, he winces. Hard enough that you step back, “what?”

‘I just want us to be okay’, is a smoke ring around your coupling. He shrugs, not meeting your eyes when he pulls his own shirt off and you’re met with a bruise. 

“What is that?” you try to hide the panic, though you’re pretty certain of what it is and that was a dumb question and you punch him. And take a step back. 

His jaw is clenched but his fists aren’t. He won’t meet your eyes. You shouldn’t have punched him. You shouldn’t have panicked. You should have known. You already knew. Smurf did what she always does. She put her sons in danger. 

“Vest,” is all he can offer.

“What if there was no vest?” you pretend your voice doesn’t shake.

He shrugs, eyes are slowly creeping towards you. They’ve halted on your stomach.

“What if there was no vest Deran?” you pretend it doesn’t sound pathetic. But you’re the only thrill he’s ever had and getting shot is nothing. It’s nothing. It’s nothing until someone loves you. No. Not love. It’s not love. It’s, “Deran, what if there was no vest?”

“Then I guess,” his eyes rise, only as far as your chest, “I guess I’d be kicking myself for not asking you sooner,” flitting up to your face.

“Asking me what?”

“To move in with me,” lingering on your eyes. 

You can’t form words. Or thoughts. He has a bruise on his chest. A bruise where he got shot. He got shot and you didn’t tell him. You never told him. That you love him. No. Not love. Just, it’s just, your eyes water. You manage to blink it back. When you can’t focus on his eyes anymore, when you can’t look at him without breaking, he steps into you again. He steps in and he runs his hands through your hair, leans his forehead against yours. Neither of you has to say it, neither of you are going to. You’re both thinking it. He knows. You know. That it is love. It’s always been love. Since you were kids. Stupid kids doing stupid things and now you’re stupid adults doing stupid things but at least now you’re going to do them together. 

—————

He didn’t really sleep. He doesn’t usually anyway. Every time you rolled his way your closed lids were met with the light of his phone screen and when you slit them open at one point to be blinded by the screen, it was real estate he was looking at. 

Three nights of it. Three nights of the lack of sleeping, three nights that you’ve seen houses on his phone that are too expensive and too big and you’ll have to mention that to him. You don’t need a damn palace. You can live in a box on the beach if he’d rather. Well, a box with a shower. Not that you’re high maintenance, you can pit-dick-ass shower in the sink too, but you remember those showers in Belize. And the way he looked when the water was dripping down his face and trailing across the surface of his body. And it’s somehow different than the ocean. And it’s somehow… damn, that smells good. You suppose you don’t need a hard-on this time of the morning. Time to get up.

He’s cooking. The scent of it wafts up to the loft and entices you out of bed. He’s cooking and he’s still shirtless and that bruise makes your body ache. It’s nowhere near the first time you’ve seen him with bruises and cuts and scrapes and burns and road-rash and everything a human body can withstand, but this is the first bullet. And you didn’t realize how fucking terrified you’d be of it. What if there was no vest? It just keeps repeating in your head every time your eyes scan his chest. You’re trying to act like it doesn’t bother you, like it doesn’t hurt you, like it doesn’t worry you. That he could have been dead. Just like that.

Instead, “get any sleep?”

“Barely,” like you didn’t already know that. But you can play this game. And maybe he’ll pry open eventually. 

He’s such a dick. He’s a dick with a big heart under all that competitive fighting for space and attention thing he has going. He’s a dick that can really cook breakfast. Like truly cook, a real breakfast. A dick who lit a candle, it might have Jesus on it and you have no fucking clue where he got it, but he lit a candle and cooked you breakfast. He can also make you smile, pretty much every time he looks at you. Even when he looks this fucking tired. A dick who, yeah, he’s got a point. Your dad is a douche, but he’s never gotten you shot.

—————

“I think this place has too much light.”

“That’s not a thing,” but him standing here looking all out of place and squirmy, that’s a thing. One you’ll have to nip in the bud as soon as possible, ‘cause this place is insane and the shower is gorgeous but this place is money. Lots of money. 

“I can’t believe she thought I was from LA.”

You don’t bother telling him that she’s kind of right, “it’s a compliment,” when he’s dressed decently and his hair is all Hollywood and he looks so much different than the Deran you’re used to, but he still sounds like and squirms like the Deran you’re used to.

“How is that a compliment?” 

If you get into it, he’ll go back to wearing Craig’s old stretched out and too big hand-me-downs, “okay, we can always keep armpit showering out of the sink at your bar.”

“Come ‘ere,” pulling you close and steering you to the door. Watching the ocean out the window for a long moment before he sighs, “next up?”

“Yeah. Let’s buy an RV or somethin’. Park it on the beach, only move it when we get kicked out. We could make our way down and back up the coast in short order.”

“Yeah?” he ruffles your hair before he lets you go. 

You think he got the message.

—————

He offers to go with you. You want to say yes. Of course you want to say yes. Having company on the flight? On the bus? Even if the company is a fidgety Deran who you really can’t imagine being cool with being on a plane that he’s not jumping out of. But, time with Deran when he’s away from the Cody web? Fuck, you want to say yes. 

And there’s a big old but in there. A big old but that maybe you should just tell him. Maybe you should tell Jack to shove it. Maybe you should tell Deran what you’ve been doing and stop fucking doing it. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid and you know you’ll get caught. You just, you need the money and you can’t ask Deran for anything more than he’s already giving you. And maybe you do one more run for Jack on the next event and you have some cash to put towards the house, whatever house Deran decides is the right house. 

Jesus. Yes, look at him, you’d love to have him come along. Of course you would. But you can’t. You cannot put him in that position. If you get caught in the airport, it’s not the end of the world, you’re good at playing stupid. You can play stupid and you don’t have priors. Not since you were a kid. Nothing real. MIP, but who doesn’t have an MIP? Loitering? Does shit like that even end up on your record when you’re just a dumb kid skating outside the mall. Or trespassing or whatever it would have been the night you two got caught doing tricks in that empty pool in that hideous new section of condos. You doubt any of that shit would add up to any real kind of time, maybe a hefty fine or something if you got caught with this shit. And would it hurt your feelings to roll on Jack? Not if it meant a slap on the wrist and no time served. Community service or something. What’s the worst that could truly happen?

But, that big old but, if you had Deran with you and you got busted. The Cody family probably has a dictionary sized file at the local police station. And after this shit with Smurf? There’s got to be plenty of heat on all of them. You’re not about to risk Deran just so you can have company and a good lay on the South Africa trip. A really good lay. Or a boyfriend. Boyfriend? Maybe you should sort that out before you leave.

“You could work on your Gorkin flip. Maybe someday you’ll actually land one.”

That’ll keep him busy. 

“Someday, huh?” the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve seen on his face in so damn long you forgot he had one, when he actually does land it. Dick. Natural talent, just another thing he’s got going for him that’s going to waste by living his life under Smurf’s thumb.

——————

1.2 million? In cash? Jesus. Is that what living under Smurf’s thumb will get a person? Or is that what getting shot in the chest will get a person? 

Damn it, you should say something. Or make it clear you’re not just going to freeload here, or make it clear you don’t need the damn three bedrooms or two bedrooms or, shit, a tent on the beach would be just fucking fine but now he’s smiling. Leaning against the doorframe and tapping the wall, “one thing my brothers have always been good at. Knocking down walls,” as his eyes scan the place, “open it up some. It’ll be like living in a fishbowl with all these windows,” shrugging, “update the bathroom,” his mind is made up and he’s walking towards you again, “I’ll do the man shit while you’re gone,” that fucking smirk, “you can Pottery Barn it up when you get back. Ya know, make it look like a home.”

“Gee thanks,” you reach for his hand. He looks so hopeful. How do you crush that? If you say anything at all right now, anything that could even be construed as negative, he’ll think you’re cutting him down. Your eyes catch on his, feeling like you’re maybe drowning and you should just out with it, right now. You should just tell him all of it, all of the shit with Jack and you should cut ties with that shit, and you should stay home. Home. This is home. Right here, isn’t it? This guy you’ve always loved, since you were a damn kid, this guy who is finally making the moves to make things official and you’re pretty sure if he wants you to make his house a home then you don’t have to ask him to clarify your relationship anymore. 

Uncertainty is creeping into his features the longer you sit here watching him without speaking. You want to do anything to erase it, though it’s impossible to speak around the ball that’s forming in your throat, “that okay?” he wonders finally, bottom lip tucking itself into his teeth.

“Yeah, yes,” you stand finally, “yes,” again, mostly to convince yourself this time. It’s okay. It’s all okay. You just have to make it through the airport tomorrow and it’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay. You lean against his forehead, wanting to steal his calm. The calm that he’s feeling when you’re not feeling it. And you’re not certain the two of you can ever be synced in that way. And you wonder how many more times your timing can suck before it tramples you both. 

You remember that guy in Hawaii now, the one that said people can change. They change all the time. They just have to want it for themselves. Deran wants this. He wants a home. He wants a home with you. He owns a business. He’s going legit and he wants a home. A real home. 

You breathe his air, feel his hands rising to land on your back and you need to say something, at some point. Deran’s a pretty fucking receptive guy, and he’ll know you’re lying soon enough and he’ll know something is off, and he’ll think it’s him or his offers or his openness and he’ll respond by shutting himself down again and you can’t bear that, so you sigh, “I think I might actually miss you this time.”

You feel his smile against your face, “oh yeah?”

You don’t have to open your eyes to see that his are sparkly. There’s not too much light here. Just the right amount to make his eyes look like the ocean at dawn, “maybe.”

——————

You’re packing when you get the text about dinner with Smurf tomorrow. When you don’t respond right away, he calls, “hey.”

It’s tumbles out, “it’s not a thing. Ya know, dinner, it’s just that she, I told her. About us. Moving in and,” his voice trails off, you’re pretty sure he’s taking a drag. You hear the wind across his phone and his long, slow exhale. And the ocean. Where is he?

You want to tell him that you hate his mom. That the bruise she put on his chest is just now finally fading away to yellow and disappearing but when you put your hand there last night you were pretty certain you could still feel it tickling your fingertips and whispering in your ear, ‘he’s always going to be mine,’ in a voice that sounded an awful lot like hers, ‘he will always be mine no matter what you do to him’. 

“You can say no,” it’s quiet. 

“No. Yeah, just,” you’re not sure if you can sit at her table and look at her and listen to her voice and know that she cares so much about her own son that she got him shot. She got him shot and how many other things? How many other things throughout the years? You remember things, things that couldn’t just be shrugged away that you both just shrugged away because it was easier than talking about it. And you know things, you know things even after they’re shrugged away. You know things simply by being around him for nearly your entire life and seeing things change and seeing things hurt and seeing things tear him apart from the inside out. And you know, you know without a doubt that she’s done things to him that a mother should never do to their son. And you know, you know that your handprints on his skin will never erase hers. And your whispers in his ear will never find a way to mute hers. 

“Fried chicken,” he’s trying not to sound desperate. 

How does he make two damn words sound so fucking pathetic? And why is it that when he’s desperate and needy and self-conscious and seeking affection or fulfillment or just a damn, “sure,” you’re on the other side of town? Or the other side of the world? Why couldn’t he just show up? He always used to be so good at showing up. And now it’s like he needs your permission for every single move he makes, “she is a good cook,” that’s not a lie. And maybe if you get stoned enough before you go over there, it’ll be worth it.

——————

The desperation and neediness are gone by the time you’re done packing and hauling your stuff to the bar for safe keeping until he can move all your shit into the house he bought. The house that he wants you to make feel like home. You’re not sure you can do that. You’re not sure about anything right now. You want to be sure. You want to be sure about one thing, the one thing that you’ve always been sure about. Deran. You’ve always been so sure about Deran.

It’s like he can hear your internal arguments and he’s standing behind you when you’re looking at your boxes stacked up neatly against the back wall in his office. His face lands between your shoulder-blades, hands on your hips like he’s afraid you’re going to take off on him. He’s picking up on your nerves and reminding you, “it’s the same competition, same waves, same shit you’ve always done. You’ll be fine. Just gotta stay out of your head. Ride like you always do. You got this.”

Shit. You fight the blur in your eyes and pretend you can’t hear the voice in your head reminding you that you’re lying to him. Now, when he’s finally stopped lying to you. Maybe he never really did lie to you. Maybe he omitted the truths to keep you safe and he’ll probably never stop doing that. Maybe you can tell yourself you’re doing the same for him. Right now. You’re omitting the truth about the coke because you’re keeping him safe. Lord only knows how Deran would fix this problem if you told him. 

He stays there, breathing against your back for a long time and you nearly expect to hear it pass his lips, ‘you’re the only thrill I’ve ever had’, but it doesn’t. No sense in saying something you both already know anyway. 

—————

You survive the whirlwind of Deran Cody in the loft in his bar and three rounds of fucking before you pass out with his arms around you and you’re pretty sure he’s actually sleeping too. You survive the next morning, maybe surviving is an understatement, maybe you’re thriving even with all these omitted truths as he does something you’re not willing to put a label on. Not yet. But it involves a lot of eye contact and there are three words that keep sticking to the roof of your mouth and you know they’re on his too. 

You spend the day giving each other sideways glances while you pretend no one else can see it. Helping him around the bar. Getting an hour on the surf. Joking and grabby hands and it almost feels like Belize when he grabs a handful of your ass on the beach where there are people that could see him do it and he doesn’t seem to notice one single bit when he leans in to steal a kiss under the public shower. It’s a short one and you’re glad for that, neither of you need to be sporting wood in board shorts. 

And, sure, you survive dinner. Dinner at the Cody house. Sometimes you think you should sell tickets to this shit show. Between Smurf and her everything is a threat, even the giving of properties somehow seems to be laced with ‘you owe me for the rest of your life’, and you really hate the way she talks to J even though you don’t know that kid at all, it just seems that much more calculated than the way she talks to her sons. And then there’s Pope. Stalking across the patio with bruises on his chest and blood on his hands. There’s Pope and then there’s Craig pretending none of that happened. 

And, “yo, I gotta get going.”

You’re trying not to act like you’re relieved about it. But you don’t think you can handle being here for more than a moment longer. Even if Deran is awfully chill about just resting his arm around your back on your chair. And he’s awfully quiet about all of Smurf’s bullshit and he didn’t flinch or squirm when she mentioned them living together. 

He’s quiet on the way to the airport. You make sure he doesn’t touch your board. Maybe security won’t notice the extra weight, but Deran would. You’re not sure how to handle any of this part. This goodbye part. You’re sweating already, but his eyes landing on yours have the calming effect you needed in order to walk through that door. 

His hands clamping down on your arms and his, “let me know when you land.”

You nod. You’re not going to make the move. He’s not going to make the move. He’s made it clear you’re in charge. But public settings? You’re going to make the move. You see your hand out of the corner of your eye rise and land on his chin. His eyes don’t flash any kind of warning, so you lean in. And he leans in. You feel yourself smile against his lips for a split second before you wipe it off and kiss him properly. Or he kisses you properly. You’re not sure which. You only pull away because you have to. And you don’t say anything. Neither does he. You just give a lame wave, a half-smile and a nod before you turn into the building.

——————

You never should have left him. It’s all you can think as you watch that drill. You never should have left him. You never should have left that dinner table. Even if it was dinner with Smurf, you should have stayed. Missed your flight on purpose. Missed the whole damn event.   
You never should have left him. Of all the things in the world that your Deran is understanding about, drug smuggling will not be one of them. You’re certain of that. And all the things Deran Cody is capable of if he finds out about this? He wouldn’t harm you, you know that at this point. But what’s to stop him from going after Jack? As much as you think Jack is mostly just a giant tool, you don’t want Deran going down for murder. The last thing you want is for your problem to become his. 

You never should have left him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of fill-in scenes during the moving in process that we didn't see :) 
> 
> Going to take a minute to get season 3 Deran finished, it's another big one for him. Thanks for reading!


	6. Fuck Having Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You' are Deran from 3x1 though 3x7

Fuck Having Parents

You can fuck guys. You can do it. Your body can do it. Your mind can do it. So you do it. Because you can. For the first time in your life. You’re not stupid about it. You use condoms. You’re not stupid. You sat in the the walk-in enough with Craig through the years with his burning, itching, oozing; enough times to know you don’t ever want to deal with that shit. And the thought of a doctor touching you, just the thought. It’s too much. A doctor could see it. And you don’t want anyone to see it.

Maybe you should actually try a relationship. But if you tried a relationship you’d have to talk. Talk to the guy. Real talking. Like sitting over lunch and talking. And eventually you’d have to tell him who you truly are. And you’d have to be more than just a guy he met at a bar. You’d have to talk. About it. Eventually.

—————

Craig’s still gone, Pope’s still crazy and you’re not sure what to do about it but you think as long as he doesn’t kill someone, or himself, then it’s fine. You get your own crew together to pad your wallet when you need it. Steal cars, it’s what you’re good at. You’ve got enough brains to run the crew and pull off the job and not get caught. You’ve got enough connections from juvie and those few months you were in jail to know you can trust them. 

Smurf’s in jail, she can’t touch you. She can’t control you. She has no say in what you do or how you earn your living now. She’s not your problem. You don’t visit her. Why would you? After all she’s done to you. It’s not like you want her to die in there. You just, you don’t care. Your life is easier without her. You’re a grown man. You take care of yourself and that’s all. No one else matters.

She never loved you. Why should you love her? 

—————

Your employees know you, they know not to bother you when your door is shut, they know to text you first. Even if you’re on the premisses, to text you on the bar phone, the one that Smurf will never have control over, the one number you have that will never change. It will never change. And sometimes you stare at the screen and punch in Adrian’s number and stare at it, but never dial. He promised he’d see you when he got back. The ball is in his court. He’s in charge of what happens next. 

And what happens next? Well, your skin gets lit on fire and you pretend it doesn’t effect you when you get back from a job and he’s sitting at the bar. He’s the first person you see and he’s the only person you want to see, but you’re acting cool. You think you’re acting cool.

You realize when you talk to him, when he asks you if you’re okay, you realize that’s a question no one else has asked you. Not even one you’ve asked yourself. But you don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want him to know the truth behind any of it. Or the parts of the truth you know. He doesn’t need to be a part of that. He doesn’t need to be any part of your family life, any more than he already knows is too much. Hell, sometimes you’re certain that him just knowing your family name is too much. He’s too pure for that. He’s too real for that. He’s too human. And he cares too much. He makes you care too much. But you can’t push your way back into his life even if your breath keeps breaking off in your chest every time his dark blue eyes land on you. Every time he smiles at you. 

It feels. It feels like something real and something you can have and something you can keep. And now that Smurf is behind bars and Baz is dead and Craig is in Mexico and the only part of your family left is a certified psycho and he’ll be in the ward again soon enough, maybe you can keep this. This part of your life that you’ve always tried to keep secret because you can’t bear to let them get their hands on him. They can’t tarnish him the way they’ve tarnished you and everything you’ve ever had. 

When he tells you he should go, you know it’s a lie. You both do, you know he’s acting coy like he didn’t stay here after closing time for this. But he’s gotta make the first move.

“Yeah, you should probably go,” you nod and he’s getting closer to you, “that’d be good,” and he’s reaching for you like you knew he would and he’s leaning into your lips and you suddenly can’t breathe but you can breathe for the fist time in months when he pulls away, only for you to reach for him and pull him back in. He’s in charge, you’re the one following his lead when he goes for your shirt. You’re not about to lose the contact of his lips on yours and when he pushes you back against the doorframe you’re pretty sure you’re going to break that rule of him being in charge. Because he knows what it does to you when he tries to get pushy. Your hands on his skin are burning holes into your soul.

You shove him away. Before shit gets broken out here, “thought you said you had to go,” he’s smiling, he’s going to take the challenge, “‘cause I don’t know about you, but I was just gonna get naked and hang out in the back. But if you have to go,” he can’t take it. Your skin is tingling and your heart is in your ears and he comes at you. Exactly how you knew he would. 

He doesn’t resist a damn thing that you do to him. And your lips against his body are screaming the sound of Belize into your head, and branding the salt of his skin into your flesh and you’re certain you could crawl out of your own body and stay in his for the rest of your life.

By the time you make it to the loft you’re exhausted and he’s sweaty and beautiful but you can’t tell him that. You can’t tell him any of the shit you want to tell him. Like you missed him. And you’re sorry. And you’re shit. You’re complete and utter shit. And he’s too good for you. So you linger over him instead and you watch what every move you make does to his body and you can’t remember the last time you did this, if you ever did this. Or if you’ve only imagined it a million times over to make it feel like a true memory. 

And maybe you love him. And maybe you always have. But you’re not even sure what love is. Unless it’s this. His sweat beading into yours and his legs wrapped around your hips and his lips against yours and the air you share between you when your eyes plaster themselves shut and the world goes away and that question of whether or not you love him isn’t a question anymore. It’s certain when you linger against his forehead and your hand slides through his hair and you watch his lids flutter open and pull you back into his lips. 

And you’re certain when his body goes limp with sleep in your arms that everything you’ve done and everything you’ve been through together, whether it’s the good shit or the bad shit or everything in between, it was all for this part. This part where you can be you and he can be him. And nothing else matters. Nothing else matters. 

When you wake in the morning with his body still in your arms you have to remind yourself that this is real. That this whole thing is real. This bar is yours. This man is yours. Maybe. He’s your something anyway. Maybe he’s just your friend right now. A friend that you slept with. A friend that you’ve loved in some way or another since you were a kid, but he can’t know that. He can’t know that even if Smurf is behind bars for now and Baz is under ground and they can’t touch you, they can’t take him now; but all the shit you’ve done for your entire damn life, that shit could. That could touch him. So maybe you still need some time. You still need some time to put more distance on your past. That was the past you. And the you that is comfortable with loving your best friend openly and honestly, that you needs more distance. And patience. You need to be patient with him and let him make the decisions.

But this decision? “I’m going back to UCSD.”

Is fucking stupid, “plenty of people have a rough first year.”

It’s a money thing. Shit, you can fix a money thing. He just needs money and he needs to get out of his head, and you have money and you can maybe get him out of his head. Money’s easy to get. You just have to make sure he knows it isn’t a hand-out.

Wait, what’d you say? Something wrong. If he stopped eating he’s getting up and he’s leaving. And you think you kissed him but the world was starting to close in on you so you’re not even sure if you kissed him. Why is he leaving? He’s leaving. You can’t make him feel something he doesn’t. Fuck. Asshole. You’re an asshole. Maybe you can’t ever fix that, but you can find money and you can give him the sponsorship he needs and he’s, he is something special and he’s talented and he’s got a dream that is still alive or it can still be alive. And you know how to keep it alive even if he doesn’t. You can’t make him feel something he doesn’t, but you can help him with this.

—————

Jesus, this is the shit, this is exactly the shit that can’t be around Adrian. And this shit? Ox and Colby showing up? This is the shit that you can’t ever erase. This is the shit that can touch him and harm him and take him away from you. And this is exactly why you still need space and distance. And if he is around, if he was still here now when these assholes are showing up and no doubt spilling shit about the job you pulled, or begging for the cash early or whatever the hell they’d be here for, it’s not like they would stop talking just because Adrian was standing in the room. And then he’d know. And then he’d be an accessory to all of this shit, all of this shit that you’ve been trying all your life to keep away from him.

You have to threaten your friend, “there are a lot of Codys and I’m the nice one,” you tell him. And you wonder if you’ve ever had a friend when the fire the gun next to his ear. 

Shit. This is why, this is exactly why Adrian can’t stay. He can’t be around you. He can’t be your friend. He can’t be your whatever people call the people they love. Love. What the hell is love anyway? 

Maybe it’s, “you don’t have to keep saying you’re sorry.”

But it’s not. How can you love someone after what you did to him? How can he love you after what you did to him? Jesus, how could he love you any way? In any world? In any time? How could he love you when your own mother doesn’t even love you? When the one person on this earth programmed to love you can’t even love you then there must be something so deeply wrong with you that you probably are the runt of the liter eaten by your father but you weren’t born in the wild and your father took off before he could realize there was something so defective about you that you weren’t fit for survival, but if he’d stayed maybe he would have eaten you, but either way, Adrian deserves better, “listen, if you quit now you’ll regret it. Trust me.”

Honesty. You are an honest guy. And you are going to be honest with Adrian. If you are never honest with anyone else for the rest of your life, you are going to be honest with the one person that matters. And you are going to do this for him whether he wants it or not. he deserves this, he deserves to chase the dream and he deserves to get the fuck away from you before it ruins him.

—————

Family dinner. Even if Smurf isn’t here and Baz is dead and Craig is gone. There’s still family dinner. For Lena. It’s more than Baz ever did for the poor kid. 

Pope’s angry, it’s boiling under the surface and you don’t feel like being the target of his rage, so you’re going to go back to the bar and let J take the brunt of it. But that little fucker brings up the job. He knows about the job and now you have to tell Pope about it, and yeah, you did feel good, you felt like you were in control and you trusted Ox and Colby for the job. For the job part, that’s not a lie. It’s afterwards that you’re having regrets about it, but you’re not going to show that. They might be idiots, but once you give them their cut of the cash they’ll leave you alone. You’re sure of it. 

Fuck it, you don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. You’re done with that game. But of course, of course, J has, “look, they don’t just want Smurf. They want you. They want you, they want everything,” and the kid might be a pain in the ass but he’s right. 

“So we’re just s’posed to trust you?”

“You haven’t got a choice.”

And this is why. This is why your life will never be your own. It’ll never be your own.

And now Craig. Now fucking Craig. Craig beat to hell with his drug dealer girlfriend and they were probably both freebasing all the way back here. Fucking Craig.

Fuck. You knew you never should have come back from Belize. 

That asshole better not have wrecked the Scout. 

——————

Of course Craig gives you shit about your hair. And of course Craig wants money. And of course Craig wants in on your next job. And of course he thinks you’re mad at him for leaving.

But, “I’m happy you went to Mexico,” and you mean it, “you should do you,” even if you wish you were in Europe. If you wish doing you meant you had gone with Adrian. 

But you’re not lying. Not about Craig. Even if he is looking at you like you’ve lost your mind.

Does’t take long before he’s back with his damn shoulder out of socket. Fucker. Big ass baby. Cryin’ about a dislocation. Guy can get shot without flinching, but a dislocated shoulder?

Big fucking baby.

Spending your afternoon in the ER is not what you had planned. But there’s nothing you can do about it. Because Craig is back in your life. And Craig is a giant pain in your ass but he’s your brother. 

And your brother wants to know, “the hell’s up with you man?”

Whatever that means.

“You’re all, like, chill now.”

Maybe ‘cause you’re almost a human again. Again? For the first time in your life. No Smurf breathing on your neck and fondling your hair and tracing her fingers down your spine. No threats. No judgment. You have a place of your own. You did something, one damn thing right, for Adrian. Finally. 

And even though you know it’ll all come down on you, that you’ll be picking up Craig’s messes soon enough, at least he’s Craig and Craig is predictable. 

And that guy? “Holy shit, you’re Clark Lincoln,” is kinda sexy. And totally gay. And that’s the first time you’ve ever been eyed like that when you actually noticed it and weren’t trying to hide from it. And that feels pretty okay. So maybe wasting the day in the ER isn’t the worst thing to happen today. Even if Craig is still kind of an idiot. 

Whatever, Clark Lincoln is easy on the eyes, even if you never see him again. 

Leave Craig in the hands of Renn. Renn, yeah, she’s got her shit together. And leaving the card with her is only a mildly better option than living it with Craig, but it’s not like you use it. Unless you need stitches or something. Stitches that Pope can’t do. You remember the time Smurf brought you in when you were fifteen, it was supposed to be a check-up, clearing you for surfing or like some normal thing that normal people do with their normal kids. But when the nurse told you to go ahead and disrobe, you took off instead. The thought of a medical professional seeing your naked body, they’d certainly be able to see it all. 

Either way, you’re the fuck out of the ER and you’re sure in the fuck not coming back in unless it’s on a back board. Or the next time Craig is being a big ass baby. 

—————

Oh, now Lena’s walking in the bar. You want to think that Pope can do this, he can take care of her. He sort of took care of you when you were a kid, and Craig. But that was with Julia. And he never had the full weight of taking care of either of you, Julia was already pretty much a useless junkie by the time you were a kid, so sure, Pope did take care of you for a lot of shit. He’s fine, he’ll do a way fucking better job than Baz ever did. 

And sure, you suppose, if you had to, like there was absolutely no other option on the Earth, you could figure it out. What happens to Lena when he ends up back in the psych ward or prison? Hopefully Smurf will be out of jail by then. Or maybe not. 

Jesus. That kid is just pretty much screwed. Come to think of it, you’re surprised DCFS hasn’t come checking in on her yet. They’ve gotta know both her parents are dead and you doubt either one of them had a will. 

Not your problem.

Your problem? Your problem is Pope. As much as you want to get the fuck out, have your bar and your jobs and your life, it’s your fucking business. But Pope? “We need money, or we could lose everything we’ve built,” he’s right. And you hate him for being right. Could you just let them do a job planned by J? Could you really just let your brothers who have always had your back and never asked questions, just do a job with the kid? Do you trust that fucking kid? Do any of you really know him? He’s smart, he’s always watching, he’s always listening. But does he really know how to plan a job? Does he have any idea how much really goes into that shit? Sure, he knows how to run the business end of it once the job is over, and yeah, he’s been on a few. But can he keep Pope from suicide-by-cop? Can he keep Craig from blowing up in some kind of coke infused rage at the drop of a hat?

“We are a family. And you’re in it. So step the hell up.”

They’re your brothers. And some stupid teenager can’t keep your brothers safe. You’re not even sure he wants to. It’s never been about just needing a fourth man. You know that as much as Pope does.

——————

Beach Skye, now that’s more like living. You feel a lot like a human being now, trashing shit, fucking it up for rich tourists and rich developers. Coming into your beach town and running out the locals. Fuck them. 

And you suppose talking to Craig, having him around again, it’s not the worst thing. He’s the closest thing to normal in your life. And you never realized how fucked up that is until just now.

——————

You’re not sure you like what living with the Codys is doing to J. You never really liked him anyway, but it’s not like he had it fair his entire life and this is just, not your fucking problem until it is and he’s distracted balancing two chicks and he’s got a tail and he’s trying to line up a job right now? You trust him? Pope trusts him? Craig, well, Craig doesn’t care, he just needs some money. He’d follow a blind deaf mute into a bank robbery, and that’s exactly why you need to do this job. Even if you don’t want to, and you don’t agree with it, and clearly no one here gives a shit about what you have to say anyway. 

But you probably should say this, “you know, what we do is hard enough without relationship problems. She’ll ruin your life,” maybe it’s advice someone should have given you years ago. Before you fell for a guy who’ll always be too good for this life, this life you can’t seem to fucking shake no matter how hard you try.

“I’m handling it,” kid’s a cocky prick. 

But you do your part ‘cause it’s the part you’ve been trained for from the time you could walk. And you do your part the way you’re s’posed to even when you feel like you could just stomp the accelerator, leave it all behind. This shitty piece of metal might get you as far as the airport and you’ve got a card that’ll cover your flight, and you could just take the hell off now. All you are is the fourth man anyway, right?

But not fucking really. Could Craig or Pope do your part? Not without scaring the old man into a fucking heart attack. Yeah, so most of the time you still hate yourself. But it’s been a long time sine you’ve stared at your loaded Beretta and thought about how your brains would look smeared on the wall. So every day is a fucking improvement. Right?

Three grand. Is three grand really worth hating yourself? Again. Or still. 

Buy the building, wait for Adrian to get some attention and some sponsors, and you’re done. You are done with this shit. No matter what they say about the properties and the business and the family. You’re done. As soon as you’re out from under your current debt. 

—————

Who’s this ratty looking piece of shit camped out in a car outside the house?

“Deran.”

“Do I know you?” no fucking way you know this junkie.

“Yeah it’s Billy.”

That means nothing to you. But Pope is creeping around behind the guy, “shit,” he doesn’t sound very excited about whoever this guy is, “it’s your father.”

Fucking great.

A dad. Well, that’s not something you ever wanted, not really. Maybe. But not this. You aren’t surprised this would be the kind of guy Smurf would have been with at some point. But you do know, everything that comes out of his mouth sounds like a damn lie. And you do know, by the way Pope is looking at him and just sort of lingering behind you, that he doesn’t trust the guy either. Pope is nine years older than you. You try to remember anything from when you were nine. No, you don’t, you don’t ever try to remember, it’s always too much. But you know they’re there, the memories, so yeah, Pope probably does remember this guy. And if you’ve ever trusted anyone in your life it’s always been your brothers. All Craig can see is the walking vagina and probably the drug hook up, Craig’s trust-meter has never really been a reliable thing. And he was four when you were a baby. So, yeah, he doesn’t remember shit about this guy. 

Billy follows you out. He’s trying. He’s not trying. He’s just here because he heard Smurf was in jail. And he thinks he has something to gain now. What does he know about the life? What does he know about Smurf? Was he really around? Or was he just a random guy in the line up of all the random guys and his lazy junkie sperm just happened to be the one that found her egg?

—————

A job that makes you remember why you hate yourself. A father showing up out of the blue that makes you remember that he hated you enough to leave. Now Colby, Colby wanting a job, coming into your place, your only safe place and bringing his shit to you.

And Clark Lincoln. That’s just, that’s an orange fucking hat. That is, really orange. And Craig is going to wear that. And why the hell is he here? You definitely put Smurf’s address on the paperwork at the ER. Why’d he even, how’d he even know where to find you? And why you? Oh, ‘cause you’re the one he was eyeballing like you were some kind of display mannequin wearing the last pair of shorts he wanted. Yeah, that’s why. And Craig probably was runnin’ his damn mouth during his check up, talking up the bar and talking about you and if there’s one person on this whole fucking planet who’s ever been proud of you, it’s probably Craig so yeah, he tells everyone everywhere at every time about the bar. Even if he claims some responsibility for it every time. Like it’s his too, but, well, it’s Craig. His heart is in the right place. And if you’re being honest right now? Everything about Clark Lincoln is in the right place.

He’s here and he doesn’t know jack shit about you aside from what you choose to tell him. And whatever Craig already told him. Either way, he doesn’t know shit about you and maybe he’s a good listening ear when you need one. Like right now. 

“You wanna get drunk with me?”

“Yeah,” like it’s obvious that’s the only reason he came here in the first place.

—————

Goddamn. This feels good. 

You’re not wild about Linc trying to take control, but you’ll let it slide for a minute. Or half a minute. Or maybe not even. It’s good sex. He’s not judging you or telling you you’re pent up, he’s into it. And he’s not bad. He doesn’t know you and that’s exactly what you need right now. You’re not wild about his hands in your hair either but you’re not going to freak out, you’re not going to squirm; those hands are not hers. They are not hers. 

Damn it, he’s gotta bring up the photo. And now you’re wishing you hadn’t done that. What are you s’posed to do? Wait around like a lost puppy for Adrian to come back and decide he does want you after all? Wait around and hope you can make him feel things he doesn’t? 

You know what you made Linc feel. Sex. Plain and simple. But going out? Food? That’s too much. That’s not happening. Not today. You have too much shit to do. Or too much Adrian lingering around you. Or something. Something that doesn’t add up to lunch with Linc anyway. 

—————

Unemployment taxes. That’s news to you. Damn it. A penalty? For being a dumbass. Fuck. 

So you might not like the fucking kid, but you might need his help. Fuck. 

Just keep your goddamn fingers crossed you won’t have to see Billy when you go over there.

“Does Smurf do that for you too?” he’s not really being an asshole, but he definitely thinks you’re a privileged asshole. 

“I don’t know man,” she did everything. Including the shit you never fucking wanted. You didn’t want any of the shit she gave you. Jesus. 

And now that guy? That burnout junkie piece of shit who is apparently now living poolside and drinking beer with some hippy burnout chick in Smurf’s house, in your house; that fucking guy, you don’t want a thing from him either. 

You definitely don’t want anything from him when you’re done with all the shit J showed you and you get maybe ten minutes of fucking sleep before you’re back out in the bar and he’s sitting at the counter. And you still don’t know if you want to smoke a joint with him or kick his ass. You’re leaning towards the latter, but it’s your bar and you don’t want to clean his junkie blood off your bar room floor. 

Oh that’s great, Craig’s been telling him shit about you too. Fuck him for being a proud big brother. Asshole. You’ll have to kick his ass for it soon enough.

Oh this piece of shit is going to try to make you feel bad for him for having a shitty dad? At least his shitty dad was around, right? At least his shitty dad chose him. No one has ever chose you.

Craig was still in diapers when he was four? Okay, so that doesn’t surprise you. Lazy fucker would probably still be in diapers if they made them that big. 

This is about Smurf. About how he loved Smurf. Or something. Gross. What the fuck. This guy needs to shut the fuck up and leave you the fuck alone.

“She was right to kick me out. If I was dragging you around with me when you were a kid, you sure as shit wouldn’t be the productive member of society you are today.”

Smurf had nothing to do with that either. No one did. Fuck parents.

According to this piece of shit, it was Smurf that got rid of him right away. According to Pope it was Billy who took off. Pope wouldn’t lie about that. He’s not the manipulative prick that Baz was, and he’s not Smurf. Pope might know exactly how to get under your skin, but he doesn’t lie. 

“Date lots of chicks, man.”

He might as well know this now so he can reject you right away, “I’m gay.”

“Then lots of dudes.”

Idiot. Of course he’s okay with that. Is he sure he’s not Craig’s dad? That seems closer to right. Guess he’s not tall enough. Either way, you’re not having a conversation about sex with your father. Or whatever he is.

“Why is J in charge while Smurf’s in prison?”

Oh, he’s really just going to get right on with it. Snooping into your family business like he knows you, like he has any idea how any of it works. Like he has any say in it. Like it fucking matters. You don’t want to be in charge of that shit anyway. Too much paperwork. Too much keeping money from Craig. You’ve been the one keeping Craig’s money safe for far too damn long anyway, it’s someone else’s turn to get their arm broken over Craig’s funds. 

He made an effort to be here, so maybe just steer clear of family stuff and keep his nose out of your sex life and this won’t be the worst person you’ve ever had to speak to.

—————

That’s rich, J’s coming to you for advice. About an old lady. You have to fuck with him. You can’t let this opportunity pass, “what do you want to do? Shoot her?”

But you’re the nice Cody. If there’s such thing as a nice Cody. Though you’re certain that shooting an old lady is even out of Pope’s repertoire. 

Jesus, you’re certain there’s no such thing as a nice Cody. But at least the old lady isn’t going to die out here and she’s too crazy to come back and blow your cover. So, problem solved. 

—————

Craig. Leave it to Craig to set up a surf with a guy you’re banging and you don’t really care for him to know you’re banging because then it will inevitably turn into some in depth discussion about Clark Lincoln and Craig’s giant man-crush on him and, “Jesus, if I knew you wanted to bang him, I wouldn’t’ve made a move.”

“Clark Lincoln, bro.”

Idiot. 

And now you know no one’s been minding the store, fucking not only does the family business need you but apparently all the locals are pussy pieces of shit when it comes to competition encroaching on their territory.

—————

Billy is proposing a job now? You’ve got to be fucking kidding. This just never stops. It never stops. You never thought you’d miss Smurf.

So it’s not the worst idea for a job. But Billy’s a complete moron. A dad. You don’t have to wonder what that’s like anymore. You kind of wish you still did. The times, few and far between, that you did let yourself wonder how your life would be if your dad had been around, those times the dad in your head was way better than this. You suppose Pope and Craig did an okay job. At least Craig isn’t really a junkie, not like this douche. And Pope might be fucking crazy but at least he never sold you for smack, which is probably what Billy would have done. And Baz? Well, the nicest thing he ever did for you was sneak snacks into your room when Smurf played the fight for food game. Of course Craig always won that game. But either way, you never did accidentally shoot yourself up when you were a toddler stumbling across a used needle. Fuck having a dad.

—————

Public relations never felt so good. Except for the whole needing the kid to save your ass part. But you didn’t really need him. You would have had that guy. You just needed another minute. 

Damn it, the kid’s not that bad, alright? 

“This is what it’s all about, us having each other’s backs and handling our shit,” when Craig talks about it, it actually feels like family shit. Normal, run of the mill family. And no way in hell you’d take anything but family on the weed farm job.

—————

“When Smurf looks at you, she sees me.”

Billy has no fucking clue what Smurf sees when she looks at you. No fucking clue. Most of the time you don’t either. The shit she’s done to you throughout the years? Goddamnit. Not now. Not now. 

Billy’s a problem. He’s going to be a problem on this job. Pope hates him. You’re pretty sure you hate him, but you can’t really hate him. Can you? Should you? 

This job is going to work. It is going to work. You know it will. And it’ll be the end. This will be enough to get out. It has to be.

And Colby’s a problem. Pope thinks Colby is a problem. But Colby is too dumb to be a problem, you can shake him quickly. You think you can, you have to. Back to being the Cody family bitch? Fuck him. He doesn’t know shit about you. Or your family. 

—————

J’s been seeing Smurf. Maybe you’re an asshole. Your own mother is locked up and you haven’t seen her. Your mother. Your mother and all her lies, ‘it’ll be okay baby’, and all her torment. Her years of training you, like you’re no better than a dog. And now she’s behind bars and you’ve got your own place and you can run your own jobs and you can be yourself and not worry about what she thinks. So why do you still worry about what she thinks?

And why the hell are you worried about what Linc thinks about your mom being locked up? And why the hell, of all the goddamn people that could walk up right now, while you’re on a date, why the hell is it Adrian?

And why the hell, how the hell, does he look so goddamn good? Why does looking at him make you feel more like you’re at home than any other place in this world has ever made you feel? Feel. The way it feels when his eyes meet yours, when you touch his shoulder, when he smiles and you wish it was him that you were sitting here with. He’s back for a few days and he didn’t tell you. He didn’t bother telling you. You’re not an idiot. You’re just friends. You have no reason to feel guilty for being on a date with someone else. If he wanted to be together he’d at the very least have told you he’d be in town. He doesn’t want to be with you. But maybe he’ll see you around. Maybe. 

Maybe like tonight. And maybe you’ll use the door this time. Because you’re not an animal. And you’re not possessive. And you’re none of the things Smurf and the Codys have made you.

And him? He is, he’s so, he’s doing coke? Adrian? Your Adrian? 

“It keeps me awake.”

Yeah, well so does caffeine. Coke? Adrian?

He’s not yours. This is not your problem. You have enough junkies and druggies in your life. This isn’t a thing. He’s just using it to stay awake because jet lag is a bitch. And that’s not a lie. He’s just, he’s whatever and you’re here to hang out. Not to get into his habits. Habit? No, you’re not talking about it. It’s not your business.

“Clark Lincoln, huh?” he’s not jealous. He’s just asking. 

He’s jealous. You fucked up. Maybe he should have called you. Maybe he should have told you he was going to be in town. If he wanted to see you, he’d have called you. He’s not jealous. You’re friends. That’s all you are. You’re friends. Friends who are not jealous. Friends who did not miss each other. Friends who are not going to touch each other. Friends who are not going to kiss. You’re not going to kiss him. You’re not. 

You are. Actually. You are. He’s not resisting. 

But you’re not going to make out. You’re just going to kiss. Maybe there are friends out there who kiss. Do friends kiss? Hell, Smurf kisses everybody. That’s different. Smurf is fucked up. What Smurf did to you was fucked up. And you know that now. But this is friendship. Friendship that feels like so much more.

Your heart is thudding harder than it has in months. You do a lot of shit, a lot of exciting shit, but this right here? His hands on your face and his body close to yours when you lean into him. This right here, this is the only thrill you’ve ever had. And all it is, something simple, like a kiss, all it takes to get your blood rushing and your head spinning. Something this simple. You’re planning a job to steal a shit-ton of money and jump out of a plane into the desert, that shit doesn’t even make your pulse raise. But this, right here, this is making everything in your body feel alive. Zapping and buzzing. 

You’re not staying. You’re not here for that. You’re just hanging out. You just came here to chill. The only person you’ve maybe ever been chill with. Sort of chill, the way friends are. Until he looks at you and you do something stupid like kiss him. Then you’re not chill. Then you’re leaning in, and he’s leaning back and you’re leaning over him and he’s fucking everything to you. 

You’re not staying though.

You’re not.

You are. Actually. You are. You’re staying ’til morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It got too damn long to get through in one chapter, so the rest of season three Deran is coming soon :)


	7. It Is Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You' are Deran through the second half of season 3.

It Is Simple

The job went fine. It went fine. It went short ten grand because of that desert trashy bitch, but she’s smart. And you believe her when she says she’ll forget you were ever out here. Ten grand? You’ve spent ten grand on worse. 

Yeah, the job went fine. Except for the whole Pope ditching Billy on the side of the road thing. Jesus. You need the fuck out of this family.

$790,000. Yeah the job went just fucking fine. And now you have something, you have something outside of Smurf. A storage locker that only the four of you know about. And it feels like something. Sort of. Almost. You just ripped off a plane, jumped out in a wingsuit, thought about shooting a woman in front her kids, and now you have nearly a million dollars in one day’s work. But the only thrill you’ve ever had is gone. 

—————

Billy’s high as shit. Isn’t that great? Hitting on your bartender. You apologize anyway and his fatherly advice is to stop doing shit with Pope, he’ll get you all killed. Sure, yeah, okay Pope might be a loose canon sometimes but at least he has your back. You know he has your back. All the time. For every single moment of your life. 

“Let me just ask you this?” he’s so fucking high he can barely speak, “do you think you could ever call me ‘dad’?”

“No,” is he serious? No way he could possibly be dumb enough to think you’d ever call him ‘dad’. Fuck. You are not this guy’s offspring. No way. No way. And now he wants to crash here. Jesus, “are you kidding me? No. You’re staying at Smurf’s.”

“Well, Smurf’s out.”

Your stomach drops to your ass. Shit. That was not what you were expecting. Shit. 

“Dude, proud of you,” as he’s walking out. And for a split second you let that mean something. Even if he’s high as shit and he wants way more from you than you’re willing to give, it’s something. Isn’t it? Someone who’s proud of you. Someone, even if he is a deadbeat and a loser and you’re not sure you like him, but it’s the first time you’ve ever heard those words in your life. It’s not like you need those words anyway, but you let yourself feel it. 

—————

That’s nice to know, Craig visited Smurf in jail. And didn’t tell you. You’re not sure you should care, you shouldn’t care, you just, “it’s not like I wanted her to die in there, I just…”

“You were hoping you’d never have to see her again. I get it,” from the dad guy who doesn’t know you.

“No you don’t,” he doesn’t. He doesn’t know shit, “you left, you took off, you bailed,” on me.

“Because I get it,” condescension. Wonderful. From this piece of shit.

“Okay,” talking to a brick wall would get you further. Jesus, and why does your mind just keep wandering to Adrian? To seeing him, to talking to him, to feeling him, to spilling your guts to the one person who never fucking judged you. He never judged you. After all the shit you put him through, all the shit you said to him, all the shit you’ve done together throughout the years. He never once judged you or made you feel small or, ‘you can’t make me feel something I don’t’. 

You take a deep breath, peel your eyes off the fire, force your mind away from Adrian and make yourself listen to Billy. Your father. Your junkie. Your deadbeat. Your, “I tried to take you with me,” dad. You don’t know what to believe. Probably none of it, except, “sorry kid. I tried man, I did my best but I just couldn’t beat her,” that sounds true. No one can beat Smurf. You’re pretty sure you hate him. You’re pretty sure you hate her. And now you know exactly why you hate yourself. This is where you come from. 

—————

Craig set up another date with Linc. Pretty close to the last fucking thing you want to do today. But at least when Craig is looking out for you it actually comes from an honest place, which is something that no one else in your life is capable of, “gotta let people in, man. No one wants to end up alone.”

Let people in. Sure. One person. The only person you’ve ever let him. Or he lets you in. And you’ve always loved the way his back feels under your hands and you’d never admit that you like the way he feels against your chest, you like the way he feels when he’s under you and he’s looking at you. You can’t admit that. Not now. Because he’s not yours. He’s not yours. 

Jesus, maybe he could be yours, “you go riding today?”

He’s not yours. He doesn’t want to be yours. You can’t make him feel something he doesn’t. So why does he sound disappointed? He’s not allowed to be disappointed. Unless he is yours. Maybe you should just tell him. That you’re his. You always have been. And it doesn’t matter who else you’re with or what else you try, it’s him and it’s always him and even when it wasn’t other guys, when there were no other guys and it was just him; hell, there weren’t even other girls, there was no one else. Even then, or even now, you’re his. But you can’t tell him that and make him think he’s stuck with you for life. Or something stupid. Just because he’s the only thrill you’ve ever had. 

“I get it,” but he doesn’t, “I’m not here,” and even if he was, you can’t make him feel something he doesn’t. It’s the first time you’ve ever been glad for your phone to interrupt a moment alone with him, “Smurf’s out?” maybe you should have led with that. Why would you lead with that? He doesn’t want to know shit about your family, he never understood and he never will and you’re fucking glad for that. You think you’re glad for that.

‘That’s your biggest fear isn’t it? Being out in the cold without Mommy’s love?’ Mommy’s love was never the thing he thought it was. And maybe someday you’ll tell him. Hell, maybe you’ll tell him about Billy too, but “hey man, you got any smokes?”

Or Billy is just going to announce himself, “I’m Billy. His dad.”

This could be more awkward. Maybe. If your dick was still in Adrian’s ass. 

“Anything else?” guy has zero shame. He’s not your dad. You’re absolutely certain he’s Craig’s dad. Not yours. 

Then he’s gone. And Adrian is putting on his clothes. You’re staring at his head and wondering if you should just say it all. Say it all now. Every single word you’ve always been too chicken shit to say, all the words you’re supposed to say to make it seem like it was less, like all the handprints on your body were less, like all her words against your ear were less, like if you label it and you talk about it and you tell someone, you let someone in, then it’ll make it less. It’ll make it less than the never-ending reel of all the reasons you’re just a piece of shit and you’ll always be a piece of shit and the only person on this planet who has ever thought you were capable of being more than a piece of shit is, um, looking at you. Those dark blue eyes are sparked with Belize and you wonder it that’ll ever change. And you wonder if you tell him now, all the things, if you tell him now all the ways that Smurf could destroy him if she knew just how important he is to you, if she knew, how quickly she’d take that away since she takes away everything you’ve ever loved. Love. Yeah, it is that simple. But he’s not allowed to be trapped here with you. He’s not. He has something more. He has a dream that he’s chasing and you want that for him. And he’s still looking at you and you heard yourself mumble something about Billy before you walked outside to have a smoke. You aren’t sure how to tell him any of this shit because you don’t know how you feel about this shit and if you can keep him at arm’s length then he won’t know how unlovable you truly are and always will be. 

That doesn’t change the fact that, “should’ve told you. Just don’t know what to think of it. Him, ya know,” you lean against the wall outside where it’s too fucking bright but the sun holds nothing in comparison to those eyes when yours finally land on them, “just,” shrugging, “junkie. I don’t know. I don’t need another junkie in my life. Guess,” it trails off and you’re an idiot. If you could tell anyone anything about any of this, he’s the guy. The one who’s standing beside you and knows more about you than you know about yourself and still stands beside you anyway but you putting words on feeling, is just, it’s not something you do. When your hand comes up for another drag, it misses your mouth with the cig and you tuck your thumb into your teeth. When you bite the tip of it, you see Adrian’s face twist and you know he hates when you do that, but he’s not going to say anything. You’d resist it anyway. You’ve hit your overload limit already and your arm is crossed over your chest like you can just hide everything from this guy who sees right through all your shit anyway. 

“So, you, um,” he starts, shifts a little on his feet, shifting towards you and you’re grateful as all hell when he just decides to shrug this all off, “tell your dad thanks. You know, for passing on that dick,” that’s an easy distraction. And now he’s smiling, so you do too, even if you can feel a flush rising in your cheeks and when he kisses you, you want to plaster yourself to his side and make him take you with him wherever he’s going today, but you won’t be that clingy, “see you later.”

You watch him walk away and you envy how light everything around him is. There’s never anything heavy in his steps and he never gets wound up about the little shit, hell, he rarely gets wound up about the big shit either. Like how you just went on a date with some guy that you’re just having fun with, but it was Adrian you wanted to be with and it was Adrian you ended up fucking today and you wanted to do more than just fuck, you wanted him to stay or you wanted to follow him. Or you wanted to hop in the Scout and see where you ended up and never fucking come back. But taking Adrian and running away from your problems didn’t work last time, so why would this time be any different?

—————

Billy’s crashing at your bar and trying to kiss your ass and wondering why J is in charge. And he’s fucking irritating and if he hadn’t come in earlier, maybe Adrian would have stayed longer and you’re so fucking sick of all of this shit. Everyone stepping on your toes and trying to get their cut. And your stupid deadbeat junkie dad trying to tell you how to run your shit and trying to plant ideas in your head and you can see right though him. You’ve been dealing with Craig all your life, Craig the junkie since you were twelve and he was hiding and escaping and whatever all that shit was, so you know how this shit works. You aren’t going to let him get under your skin and make you itchy and make that snake slither along your spine and start whispering shit to you, like the usual, ‘it’ll be okay baby’. 

Someday you’ll have your own goddamn safe place where no one can touch you. No one. Not Smurf, not your brothers wanting to work with her, not J pointing out that you have to work with her until you get your own real estate, it’s either that or use your bar and you’re not fucking using your bar for this shit. Not all of this shit. 

And someday, someday you’ll be able to explain all of this shit to Adrian. All of this shit and all the ways you’ve tried to keep him away from it while still keeping him close to you because he’s it for you and he’ll always be it for you but he can’t know this shit. And he definitely can’t know this shit with Ox and Colby and Craig calling Linc because even if you were just having fun with him, he was still, “maybe I liked the idea of having someone in my life that wasn’t involved in all this shit,” and Craig has any room to judge you? For sleeping around? 

“You caused all this shit by going outside the family in the first place.”

And how is this any different than all the years you’ve spent cleaning up Craig’s messes? How is this any different? And now Billy. And now whatever the fuck he’s saying, and now, “life is too short for holding grudges.”

“She’s your mother man, so what? Shit got weird. Sac up and go fix it,” Craig too. Now you’ve got your father and your brother who was your stand-in father when your own father was too much of a pussy to be in your life, and they both want you to go crawling back to Smurf after they both put up such a fucking front about how they needed to get away from her and they didn’t want to see her in prison either. And it turns out they’ve both been lying to you and now they’re in your place and they’re riding you and you can’t get the fuck away from this shit fast enough and you can’t get far enough away, “where you goin’?”

“One decent person in my life and you chase him away.”

“I just fixed your mess,” like it even mildly compares to all the messes they just keep sucking you into, like it even compares to all the messes you’ve cleaned up after him throughout the years. Like it compares to any of that. 

—————

You can’t even surf it off. Can you? You can’t even surf it off because she’s here. She is here. 

“Where have you been?”

That snake twists.

“You didn’t come visit me once while I was in jail. Not once.”

After all the shit she’s done to you.

“It’s okay, I get it. You hate me. I probably deserve it.”

“I don’t hate you Smurf,” but only because you’re bred to love her.

“I missed you. I missed you so much baby. You’ll always be my baby,” and now her hands are in your hair and you hate that you still find comfort in her touch. After all the touches. After all the places. After all the times. 

And you hate yourself for letting her touch you. And letting her talk to you and even if you ignore her and you know she’s only pretending to be glad you’re getting along with Billy, you know it’s a lie, and you know it’s leading up to, “is there any way I can convince you to do the Lucy job?” because it’s always something for her. It always comes down to what you can do for her. It always has. 

“I hope the two of you can put your differences aside and be at the cemetery tomorrow. It’s for Baz,” she’ll use that too. She’ll use the ghost of your dead brother to get you to cave to her wishes. To her demands. That’s how she does things. That’s how she’s always done things. Whatever it takes, whatever weapon she has she will use against you. It’s how she trained you. All of you. And you’re too fucking weak to put a stop to it. Because as much as you hate them, you need them, and you need them to keep your secrets safe just as much at they need you to do the same. 

So you show up at the stupid cemetery. And you listen to her speech about how heart broken she was in jail, and, “it’s a mother’s greatest fear,” losing her kids. Like she ever loved you. Like she ever loved you at all. And now she wants you to be buried together, “that way we’ll all be together forever. Right here,” now she’s even taken that. Death. The one relief you knew you’d have eventually, or maybe sooner rather than later some nights. Those nights that you stare at your loaded Beretta and wonder if you’re strong enough this time. Strong enough to pull the trigger. Strong enough to finally put an end to all of it. 

Even then. Even in the end. She’d still have you. She’d still have the control over it. Over all of it. 

—————

Smurf might be messing with Billy’s mind. Sure, “Jesus Christ, Billy, we’re not gonna screw you. How many times I gotta say it?” of course she’s messing with his mind. He’s a fucking idiot.

“I know you like me, you don’t want to admit it, but this has been, me hangin’ out with you has been great, right?”

No. But you think you nod.

And now he wants to spend more time. And now he wants more cash. To get his own place. Sure, and he needs it now, of course he needs it now. And it’s not because he’s twitchy and going to score or anything like that. He’s a fucking junkie. And this is how junkie’s work and you’ve been around enough of them to know. He’s a fucking liar and a user. And you wish he’d never showed up. You wish you didn’t know where you came from. 

He’s got bills to pay. Yeah. Sure. But if it gets him out of your bar before you break his face, “just don’t go and shoot it all up at once and die on me, alright?” but you don’t really care. It’d be easier that way.

—————

“I might have fixed things with Linc,” well that was probably entertaining.

“I don’t need your help,” because help in this family means ‘I owe you for the rest of my living and breathing days and maybe those damn days will end soon and you really want them to end soon’, “be a dad, don’t be a dad, I can’t deal with this shit right now,” because you don’t give a shit. Just another baby of a deadbeat druggie is what that kid will be. If it survives the time in Renn’s womb without another OD, yeah, it’ll just another baby like you only without the older siblings to keep it from snorting an eight ball off the floor.

You just want everything to go away. You want it all to go the fuck away. All your safe places are gone. All but one, “can I hang out here for a bit?” the only safe place you’ve ever had.

“Yeah,” he’s quick to answer and it makes things immediately feel closer to okay, pushing away the image of where your loaded gun is, and how easy it would be to just pull that trigger.

It all comes out, all of it comes out so easily and he’s not judging you or pushing you for more or telling you that you’re overreacting or you’re being selfish or you’re being stupid or that, ‘it’ll be okay baby’, and he’s so easy and he’s sitting next to you and you want to reach out but you can’t reach out. You remember when things were simple. When things were simple. And, ‘I just want us to be okay,’ wasn’t constantly lingering around you both.

“You’re not just a guy who owns a bar,” it’s so easy. He’s so easy. But it means so much. It’s so much more than anyone else has ever given you. 

“Yeah?”

You noticed there was no coke on the table this time. A bong, that’s your Adrian. Some beverages. The place is a pigsty. And that’s fine, you don’t care, most of it isn’t his. He’s just staying here between comps. Chad’s always been a messy guy. But there’s no coke. And that’s a relief. One you won’t voice. 

“Yeah.”

And it’s more than anyone else has ever given you. The comfort of his hand on your shoulder and his kiss against your head. It’s just comfort. It’s not for manipulation. It’s not for his benefit. It’s not something that will turn violent and hateful when you disappoint him.

You can’t afford to fuck this up. You can’t afford to fuck this up again. He’s the only thrill, and he’s the only safe place. And he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. The only thing that’s ever kept you from pulling that trigger. The only thing that can fall around you and soothe the voices in your head and the snake on your spine. It’s so simple. It’s so simple for him. 

You don’t mean to, but you fall asleep. And when you wake, he’s asleep. His face is so soft, his day-old shave his pretty pathetic for a grown man, you’re going to have to tease him about it next time. You watch his eyes moving beneath his lids, you listen to him breathe and you let yourself feel him, feel his peace, his calm, you let yourself take a little piece of this safe place with you. Only a little piece of it. You can’t take it all this time. You can’t take all of it ever again, but you can take little pieces every time, as long as you give them back when he needs them. If the time comes that he ever needs them. You’ll have them to give.

You kiss his head when you stand. And you hope your shifting doesn’t wake him. And you hope your staring doesn’t wake him. And you really hope when you whisper, “I love you,” against his head that it doesn’t find a way into his ears through his sleep, but you hope it does find a place somewhere, somewhere that’ll it’ll stay without the pressure of putting the words on his lips when his eyes are on yours and you’re certain he can hear it. 

It’s already dark outside and you head back to the bar. Feeling better than you have in days. Maybe weeks. Maybe since Billy stepped into your life. Maybe since Smurf got arrested. Or since Baz died. Or since before. Since before you lost your mind and did all the things. All the things that you’re not sure how Adrian can forgive you for, but he’s doing it. He’s forgiving you. And you’re not going to fuck that up this time.

—————

Bar’s pretty busy. And Billy’s got a bag and a few bruises, “had a little conversation with Pope.”

“Uh huh. Jesus, he got you, he got you good,” you know how those hits feel. Pope’s the reason you know how to protect your head. The only way to win with Pope is to dodge and protect and wait. And you still can’t ever win. 

“I got him good.”

You stifle the laugh.

“No, I did,” no one gets Pope good.

“Oh, okay.”

“I, um, gotta go though.”

He’s got a place to stay. Good. But he’s looking at you in a way you don’t like and he’s lingering and it’s weird. You get the feeling when the door closes behind him that he lied when he said he’d see you tomorrow.

And you know exactly why you won’t see him tomorrow when you go back to put the night’s deposit in the safe. But at least he remembered your birthday and you’re a fucking idiot to use your birthday as a combo and you know better. But it’s the only one Craig would ever remember and he’s the only other one who ever needed it, that you gave it to, that you felt comfortable with him having. But, fuck, you’re a fucking idiot. You are a fucking idiot. You let him get close. You let him get close and this is what happened. You knew better. 

You knew better. And you know better than to seek comfort in Smurf. But you do. You do because she’s your mother and she’s the only person who knows Billy, and knows the truth, or the truth twisted to make her look like the parent of the year, you’re never really sure, but it sounds like the truth, and you believe her, “there are a lot of things about your father that I didn’t want you to know.”

But he wanted you. He wanted you. 

“He did. He did take you with him. He called me eight hours later and told me I could get you back for one million dollars. He wound up settling for six hundred and a bag of smack.”

You believe her. You believe that’s all you’re worth. That’s all you’ll ever be worth. To anyone. 

—————

The day is a blur. You over clean the bar and snap at Kai when she comes in for her shift and you hide from customers when they start coming in and your finger keeps lingering over Adrian’s name on your phone but you can’t be his problem. Your problems can’t be his problem and Billy leaving you and proving once again that the two people biologically programmed to love you will never love, and you can’t let that be Adrian’s problem to fix even if he is the only person that’s ever loved you by choice. He must. Love you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be giving you a second chance. 

And if he didn’t, he wouldn’t walk in the bar at the end of the night. And the fist thing you want to do is press you face into the back of his head and live there. You want to feel him and smell him and surround yourself with him and him only, let his presence push out everyone else’s. But it’s his move now. It’s his control now. It’s his decision now. It will be for the rest of your life. Because you’ve taken that away from him too many times.

He nurses a beer and stays past closing time. You don’t argue with him when he starts helping you clean up. And you don’t say a word and neither does he, but when he looks at you with that flash of permission in his eyes like he knows you’ll crawl out of your skin or you’ll go get your loaded gun out of the safe if you don’t get your hands on him immediately, you do. You grab his collar and push him back against the wall, it’s not rough or needy or demanding and he knows it. And you know it. You stare at his lips and wait for him to do something, for him to do anything to let you know it’s okay, it’s okay to want it rough and needy tonight and he’s here for it. When he licks his bottom lip you know you have it, the permission to dive in. The permission to fuck him. Fuck him like a pent up college kid and he won’t stop you or hate you for it or try to make you slow down. If he wanted you to slow down he’d trace his fingers up your arm and wrap them around your bicep when you rip off his clothes. If he wanted you to slow down, he’d not go for your clothes, he’d make you do it yourself. If he wanted you to take your time he would give you those hints, the ones you’ve always known. Since you were stupid kids running away from home for a few months in paradise in a rundown shack on the beach and nothing to your names but boards and wetsuits and love.

You’re going to fuck him like you’re mad at him. He knows that. He knows it and he’s okay with it. And he knows you’re not mad at him. You’re just mad. You’re mad at the world. And you’re mad at yourself and when he’s turned around with his hands braced on the bar, and you’re tracing a line down his spine with your fingers, something breaks. Something inside you breaks. It breaks for all the times he’s taken your aggression and your anger when it wasn’t his fault and you should never have done that to him. And you’re just as bad as the rest of them, aren’t you?

You lead him to the loft instead. And all these broken things inside of you are threatening to come out of your eyes but you force them to stay back and you both pretend that it’s okay that your dick is not longer interested and you both pretend that it’s okay for you to just suck him off and cradle yourself in his presence by wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in the back of his head and the one broken thing that escapes is, “Billy left.”

And the only thing that escapes him is his hand, it slides across your arm and finds your hand on his chest. Bringing them to his lips and leaving them there, tangled together with his gentle breath coming out more and more gently with every exhale. And you think for the the first time since Belize that maybe it can be okay. That maybe your anger doesn’t have to make your decisions and it doesn’t have to engulf you the way it used to. You can control this. You can control that little ball of anger that rolls up in your belly and stretches out along your spine and hisses, ‘it’ll be okay baby’ and tonight it’s against your ear, ‘six hundred and a bag of smack’ and you wonder how different that voice would be, or if it’d be different at all if you had gone with Billy. If you’d ended up his. What that voice would sound like, and the things it’d be saying. How quickly he would have sold you to someone else for a bag of smack. 

You wrap your arms tighter around Adrian and wonder how many times in your life he’s been the only voice that has ever been able to override that snake. 

You don’t sleep. You listen to him sleep. And you wonder how that would feel if it could happen every night. By the time the sun is starting to play patterns on his freckles and run fingers through his auburn, you’ve stolen all the calm from him that he can afford to give. So you bring his clothes up and leave them folded on the edge of the mattress. You’d stand here and watch him sleep all day if it wasn’t creepy. 

Instead you stare at the safe for one long moment that turns into maybe an hour or two. And you think about how it would feel to steal cash from your own son. To use his birthdate to steal cash from your own son. Or to be Smurf. To use his sweat and his blood and his childhood to horde more than her cut in some secret storage locker. You wonder about how she said some people aren’t meant to be parents, you wonder if she meant herself too. If she even realizes that she doesn’t love you. That she never loved you. You wonder about Craig and Renn. You think they’re capable of love. And that’s more than Smurf and Billy can do. You remember a time you weren’t right and you weren’t sick and you weren’t alive anymore. You were just a thing that was inside your skin but you didn’t feel like you were inside your skin and you wanted nothing. You wanted nothing to eat and nothing to drink and nothing to touch you and nothing to talk to you. You were fifteen. And you remember it was Craig who sat on the floor in your room. Next to your bed and rolled a joint and didn’t say shit and didn’t do shit and didn’t tell you to get up and stop acting like a baby. He just sat there. And when Smurf came in to check on you it was Craig who said you were fine. Lied and said you were hungover. And the next day it was the same. He said you went out last night and you were hungover. But you hadn’t moved. You didn’t move for five days. And he kept lying for you. And he kept not pushing you to do anything or say anything. Maybe Craig knew. What it was like to be trapped in your own head and your own skin when all you want to do is rip your skin off and if you weren’t so goddamn tired you’d get up and put that bullet in your head and when you were fourteen you carved your name in a bullet. Like some old school gangster shit, but you still have that bullet. When the day comes, you’ll do it yourself. You know you will. When that day comes. 

You smoke a stick out by the dumpster and you watch that damn stray cat come down the alley and maybe you give her some scraps. And maybe she nuzzles your leg. But you don’t pet her. Smurf never let you have pets. That one time Craig had dogs, but they became someone else’s problem soon enough. Maybe she never let you have pets because she knew Pope was the kind of kid that would kill small animals and skin them just to see how their insides were put together. Either way, you don’t pet the stray cat because feeding her is enough. And you wonder if that’s what you’ve been to Smurf all these years. So you pet the stupid cat. And you wonder if that’s what you’ve been doing to Adrian all these years. Giving him scraps. And no more.

So when he says, “you need a real place,” you believe him. And you wonder if you can give him more than just scraps now. If you’re capable of giving him some of the things, any of the things, that could make a whole. More than just the money, the money he turns down and says something about a French board builder and there’s something not right in the way he says it and you wonder if he’s sleeping with the guy but he’s not yours anyway so you make that thought go away because if he is, then he has every right to. 

But you wonder if you make it official, if you make it more than just scraps if you ask him to move in, if you ask him for something real and if you, “would you do it?” isn’t really how it was supposed to come out and you probably should be looking at him when you ask, and you probably should be doing more than just asking him to be your roommate, “if I had a real place.”

“What about it?”

You’re an idiot, “never-mind.”

—————

“I’ve always done what I thought was best for the family. I know it hasn’t always been popular. But it was the right thing to do.”

What the fuck is she up to? And why is she playing this out again? You aren’t doing this shit for her, you’re not going to. No one wants to. Not a single one of you wants to. None of you are that fucking stupid.

You are all on the same page about this. She cannot override all four of you if you stay united and strong.

And shit, she has Marco. She kidnapped Marco. It all feels like bullshit. It all feels like bullshit. 

“I’m not gonna start a war with some cartel bitch who smuggles drugs and people for a living,” you can’t be the only one who thinks you’re going to die a slow painful death if you fuck with cartel. And sure, sometimes you want it all to end, but this way? No. Uh uh, no fucking way, “we can still walk away from this.”

“He’s right. Just let Smurf deal with it,” Craig knows. He saw that shit with that kidnapped kid. He can still hear that kid screaming ‘help’.

“No. Lucy’s gonna think it was all of us no matter what. Smurf knows it,” Jesus, Pope. He’s right. He’s right. And she never loved a single one of you. If she did, she’d never have gotten involved with cartel. This stinks of fucking suicide and your hands are tied.

But at least you can try. You can try to do this without bloodshed. You can try. That’s all that’s left. 

It’s not like you’ve ever liked Marco. But there is still a part of you that’s human. Under all this shit, this part of you that is human is starting to get dangerously close to the surface when you’re around Adrian and you need to stifle that now, you need to pretend none of this bothers you and you need to pretend that you don’t feel guilty too. That you don’t feel guilty about not talking to Baz about Lucy. The shit that you and Craig knew about Lucy. 

You have to pretend. Pretend that doesn’t bother you. And you have to pretend it doesn’t bother you that you’re gearing up for a fire fight. Jesus. You probably should have kissed Adrian a little harder, held him a little tighter, and asked him like a grown man, like a grown man who loves him, if he’d move in. If he’d be yours. If he’d be only yours. 

You’re not sure who’s digging their own grave. Smurf or Lucy. And you’re not sure who’s telling the truth. You don’t even fucking care anymore. You’re surrounded by liars and cheats and thieves and junkies and losers and you’re one step away from being exactly the same as all of them. 

You don’t care. Until the bullets starts flying. Then you don’t care about anything more than your own life because you didn’t tell Adrian. You saw Pope get shot. It had to have been off the vest and shit, that stings. You only care about your brothers. Making it out of this alive. The rest is just details. Including your mother. Hell, it’d be easier if she didn’t make it out alive. And maybe you care enough about J to ask, “are you hit?” and you know Craig is fine. You can tell by looking at him. And shit, you can’t breathe and all you can think about is Adrian and how you should have asked him. Or told him. Or kissed him harder and held him longer and apologized more.

And, “where’s Pope?” finds it’s way through the panic fog in your ears. You have to get out of here. All of you have to get out of here.

——————

“If Pope is dead this is on you Smurf! This is on you!” you’re certain of that. It was always about her. It has always been about her. You don't know how it took you most of your life to figure that out. Life was better when she couldn’t touch you.

Craig’s about to lose it and you can’t let him lose it on J. You might not like J very much, but none of this was his fault. You need to keep Craig from going on a coke-fueled killing spree, “it’s okay. We’ll find him. It’s okay,” because maybe the only voice left in Craig’s head is yours. It sure in the hell isn’t Smurf’s. 

——————

“I’m going to meet Lucy now. Alone.”

Is that her way of taking some responsibility? Or is it some kind of test. A test to see how far any of the three of you would go to protect her further, after all of this, “is Pope alive?”

“I don’t know.”

Your stomach keeps churning up acid and you knew you never should have left the bar this morning when she texted.

You may not like her very much, but all three of you are willing to go along with her. Maybe it’s just to protect Pope at this point, maybe one of you should have taken sniper training. Jesus. This is stupid. And Marco is dead. And that sucks. Pope’s probably dead too. There’s no way some cartel bitch is going to let her brother’s death just slide. You really wish you had never left Belize. It was simple there.

And now you have to stop Craig from getting piss drunk. ‘Cause that shit won’t help, “they took Pope and we just let it happen, man.”

“Hey, we were tryin’ not to get shot, okay?” you’re not sure if it matters what you say to him right now, “if something happens to Pope, this is on Smurf. Not on us,” you’re not sure if that matters to you. You were there too. You were there. 

This day. This day is just too much to process and you need to see Pope. Dead or alive. Before you can even begin to figure it all out in your own head. But the one thing you can figure out when you see him, is that you’re fucking relieved. Of all the shit he’s done to you, it never compared to the things he did for you. He might be a crazy bastard but he’s your brother and he’s the one person that will always do all the things you ask him to do for you without even asking why. His love might be a heavy weight more often than not, but it’s a sturdy, reliable weight. It never drifts and it never recedes and even though he was the first person to give you a black eye, he’s always been the first person to have your back too. 

Seeing him is a fucking relief. 

And leaving that house is a fucking relief. Leaving that house because you have somewhere to go, you have a bar to close, you have a life outside of this. And you need to find a shirt to hide the bruise starting to form on your chest before you go back there, it’s pretty easy to figure out what caused it just by looking at it. And you’re not about to get into that shit with Kai. You should probably apologize for being snappy yesterday. Give her some kind of bonus money or something. Since apologies have to cost and all. 

But you weren’t expecting this. Swinging the door open and landing on a pair of dark blue eyes that see right through you. They make you feel weak, like your armor is gone, and you can’t pretend that today didn’t effect you. But you have to send Kai home first. You might be able to fall apart in front of Adrian, but not Kai. 

You lock the door after she walks out and you turn to look at him, thinking of all the things you should have said and would have said maybe a few hours ago when the adrenaline was pumping and before you were so godawful tired, but you’re still too wired to sleep anyway. Instead of speaking you just end up staring at him. Because you’re a creep. You always will be. But he’s okay with that. You can feel the pissed off energy zapping around him as you walk towards him, but he’s walking towards you too and he’s wondering, “you okay?”

Your head meets his shoulder. You didn’t tell it to, but he’s so warm. And he’s so soft. And now you’re okay, now. For the first time since he left this morning, you’re okay, “fine.”

“Is everyone else okay?”

“Yeah.”

Now it hurts. It all hurts. Everything she put you through. Again. Everything Pope went through. The worry, panic, and sheer terror. It all hurts. So does that damn bruise. 

And all the shit you were thinking about all day, all day, in the back of your mind was, what about Adrian? Would he have heard about this shit from Craig? If that bullet was just a little further up, if it had gone right into your skull, in a week when Craig came out of his drug and booze induced coma, is that where Adrian would have heard about it? Or would he have to read it in an obituary like he never mattered any more than any other random person you’ve passed by in your life?

What about him? Your hands rise, taking his face and holding it there. You need a minute to gather yourself. And you need a minute to center yourself in his gaze, and you need a minute to float. To just float here in this space with him. In the one safe place, in the only thrill you’ve ever had, “would you, if I found a place on The Strand? Walk to work. Walk to surf. A shower. Would you live with me?”

It takes him a breath, just a quick one, only long enough to make your heart thud so hard in your ears that you barely hear his, “yes,” before you take his lips. His lips. Warm and soft and you pretend you aren’t desperate for his affection and his attention and his warmth and easiness. You pretend you aren’t and you think you do a good job of it for about two whole seconds before your tongue is pressing against this lips to pry them open and he’s not resisting. 

He goes for your shirt first, for those few seconds you forgot about the pain in your chest and shoulder but when your arm shifts to accommodate his removal, you wince. And he stops, takes a step back, “what?”

‘I just want us to be okay’, but this life is not okay and if he moves in with you then he’ll be that much closer to the life you’ve been trying to keep away from him since you were kids. It’s not like you’ll get out of this night or the next couple of days without him seeing you shirtless and it’s only going to be worse tomorrow and the next day before it starts to fade. Instead of telling, you show him. You can’t meet his eyes, but you hear him choke out, “what is that?” before his punch lands hard on your arm and he takes a step back. You want to take it back, you want to take so much of it back. You want to make it okay for the two of you to play fight and shove each other around without it turning into the bathroom at the beach. And you want him to know it’s okay, you’re okay. You’re getting out of this life. You are. But you’ll never be fully free of it. And maybe he knows that. Maybe he’s always known that. He just wanted you to try.

“Vest,” you’re certainly not going to let him know that punch hurt. Hurt more than the bullet. It hurt because you know the reason he threw it. You scared him. You worried him. You did all the shit to him that you didn’t want to do. Again. You did it again.

“What if there was no vest?” it shakes.

You hate that. You hate that you caused that. That Smurf caused that. That your life caused that. And all the shit your life will always be will also be his. There’s no stopping it. Whether you’re together or not. He won’t leave you. And you won’t leave him. The web that you wove together in Belize is never going to be broken.

“What if there was no vest Deran?” it shakes again and you watch it shake in his abdomen, wondering for the millionth time in your life together if the only thing you ever do is hurt the person you love, then how can they possibly love you back?

“Deran, what if there was no vest?”

Your eyes move, only as far as his chest, neither one of you needs to see the gloss in each other’s eyes to know it’s there, “then I guess,” but you do need to see that endless blue for just a breath, even if it’s a breath that hurts, “I guess I’d be kicking myself for not asking you sooner.”

“Asking me what?”

Once you look, you always look for too long, “to move in with me.”

His face twists and he pretends to blink it back. You want to rip your own arm off and beat yourself to death with it just for causing that worry, and that pain, but at least if you’re going to get yourself killed for your family, at least if you live together, you can start including him on all your shit. Like emergency contacts and shit. You can put his name on a deed, on a title. You can put his name on your everything. Hell, you could put his name on your forehead at this point. Stepping into him when he looks like he might fall over if you don’t hold him up.

—————

You can’t sleep. Not for the cartel shit. Or the Baz shit. Or the Lucy shit. Or the Marco shit. Or the Smurf shit. You asked him to move in with you. He said yes. He’s going to move in with you. You’re excited and you’re terrified. You’re terrified because this just brings him one step closer to all the shit you don’t want him closer to. 

You can’t sleep. But you can watch him sleep. You can let yourself feel his warmth. Listen to his breathing. You let yourself wrap around his body a few times. Until your arm gets sore and you’re afraid you’re squeezing him too tight and you’ll end up waking him. But you love watching him sleep. He’s so beautiful. And you can’t tell him that. Probably can’t ever tell him that. Not without getting teased relentlessly. It’s not something he needs to hear anyway. Or does he?

When his eyes flicker open, you pretend you were getting up. Use the toilet or smoke a cig or something. You’re not the creepy guy watching him sleep. He smiles anyway, knowing you’re busted and he doesn’t care. It would freak you the fuck out if anyone watched you sleep, but him? He hasn’t got a care in the world. Other than you. Other than all the shit you’ve put him through. But this is a start. This is a start.

And this is something you’ll get to do now. In this house. Or that house. Or, shit, these are expensive. You’re going to have to ask Smurf for your cut. Shit. There’s no way in hell you can let Adrian know that. He’ll just think you’re using Smurf’s money. Like he did when you bought the bar. 

The light from your phone reaches across his features when he rolls your way one night, his eyes flit open and squint, blink, close. His hand lands on your thigh, a gentle squeeze and you figure this’ll be the first place you look at. 

——————

You win the ‘my family sucks’ contest, you’d probably win that with just about anyone. And when you go to check in on Pope, he’s weird. He’s a weird guy, but he needs something to keep himself busy. You know that. You’re the same way. 

“It keeps me sane. Having something that’s mine,” you’re about to get even more sane then. A house. Adrian.

“It’s only yours because Smurf lets you have it.”

“I paid for it okay? My name is on the lease.”

“The second she decides she doesn’t like it she’s gonna find a way to take it from you.”

You know that. You’ve always known that. It’s why you’ve always kept Adrian at arm’s length but you can’t do that anymore. You can’t keep doing only the things she wants you to do. She can only control you if you let her, “I’m just as angry as you are about what went down, man, but what are we gonna do? What? We gonna kill her?”

You know that look. That’s the look that you avoid. You’re not sure if you want her alive, but you’re not sure if you want her dead either. And you certainly couldn’t kill her yourself. But if you do find her dead, you won’t say a word. Well, the conversation never happened if he doesn’t say anything and you need to get to that showing anyway.

—————

He looks good here. In all this light, but it’s just too much light. Like it’ll show too much of all of you that’s tarnished and you’re certainly not going to buy a place this fancy. This is so far out of your comfort zone. The two of you would have this place destroyed in no time at all. 

And his, “yeah. Let’s buy an RV or somethin’. Park it on the beach, only move it when we get kicked out. We could make our way down and back up the coast in short order,” is just about what you were thinking but you wanted to give him the best if he wanted the best. You’re done giving him scraps. This is only the start, but when he finds a place he wants you to see, then you’ll see it. No matter what it is or what price tag is on it, it’s his if he wants it.

Until then, you’ll pit-ass-dick shower in the sink. It works.

—————

“Don’t you have employees for that?” her. You don’t get to have a day without her in your head or on your flesh or standing in front of you.

“What do you want?” you’re not going to bother explaining to her that you take out your own goddamn trash, a concept that’s been lost on her for as long as you’ve known her. You wonder if she ever has. 

Cash. ‘Cause that makes up for all of it.

Smurf wants to know, “how long you going to keep punishing me Deran?”

“Maybe ’til you stop draggin’ me into all your bullshit,” like that’ll ever happen. 

She doesn’t bother arguing it, “I’m worried about Pope,” yeah, well, aren’t we all? Why does this feel like it’s all about her? Still? Always? And you’re supposed to do something about it. You’ve already talked to Pope. You’ve already talked to him and you’re not about to tell her that. That somewhere else look, well, you won’t be the one to break it to her, but you all have that. You all have that somewhere else place that you go in your head when her hisses become too much. When her hands become too much. And you’re not about to let her have that knowledge about you. You’ll never let her have that knowledge about the power she still holds over you. She certainly doesn’t need to know that your somewhere else place is Adrian. 

——————

Adrian. And a day on the beach. Even though the surf is shit and you offer to come with him and he doesn’t even entertain the idea in any real way and it makes you think, it makes your wheels start spinning because that’s what a boyfriend would do, right? Take a little trip together. Even if it’s for a comp. But you guys have done comps together before so you know it’s not about extra nerves or some shit. Coach seats? That’s his excuse? Not even a, ‘you have a bar to take care of’ because at least that’s true. Yeah, coach sounds horrible, but you wouldn’t fly coach anyway, you’d probably spring for first class for both of you if you went along. So it’s the French board builder. Isn’t it?

No. You’re not going there. You’re not going there. Because he’s not yours. He is not yours. And if he wants to sleep around, then that’s his deal. It’s not like you asked him, to be your only. He just is your only. Even when you were sleeping around. But you don’t get to control that part of him. Even if you’re living together. Living together as what? You didn’t clarify that. If you introduced him to someone right now, how would it go? Your friend? Your boyfriend? Your roommate? Your partner? What?

And it’s not cheating if he was banging the French guy last trip. Right? He wasn’t yours then. And he isn’t yours now. He’s not yours. 

But he is yours. He’s yours when he’s distracting. He’s always good at that. That damn smile and the dare, “you can work on your Gorkin flip. Maybe some day you’ll actually land one.”

He’s yours when you make an offer on the house he wanted you to see. Even if it’s not what he was expecting. If it’s too much money for what it is, but it’s where you want it to be and it’s more your style than anything else on the Strand anymore. So it’s fine. If you have this, if you give him this, maybe he’ll think twice about the French guy. Or maybe not. You’re not allowed to freak out over that. He’s yours right now. That’s the only part that matters. And if you ask him to make the place look like home, then he’ll feel more like a part of it. Giving Pope something to do by knocking down some walls and probably fixing a few appliances and new fixtures and maybe some little shit, wonder if that fire place is in working order. That’d be cool. See the reflection of the fire in Adrian’s eyes when he sits on a couch facing the fireplace. Watching the flames, rolling a joint, and talking about surf. Na, there’ll probably be burn bans from here to eternity with the drought and wildfires and shit. Maybe one of those gas fireplace inserts. You’ll have to check into that.

He seems something you can’t quite place. Distant. Is he distant? Is he only doing this to make you happy when all you want is to make him happy? Are you moving too fast? Are you being stupid about this? Are you supposed to just ask him what you are now? Are you supposed to make him put a label on this before he leaves?

“That okay?” you finally wonder when he doesn’t respond, feeling your lip tucking into your teeth and your breath being held while you wait.

“Yeah, yes,” he looks you over and stands, “yes,” but it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself. 

You take a breath and force yourself to be in the moment. In this moment. Only this one. The rest of it doesn’t matter. You’re in a house that is going to be your home. With him. With the one person that has always felt like home, the only person that has ever felt like home. He leans his forehead against yours and you're certain he is yours. Even when he’s not. 

Your hands landing on his back spark some words to exit his mouth, “I think I might actually miss you this time.”

You’re glad you’re in this moment. Right now, “oh yeah?”

You don’t bother stifling the smile that rises, even if he’ll only admit, “maybe,” he’s a damn tease.

——————

But now you need to go see Smurf about your money. And you’re going to have to tell her why and you make the stupid mistake of saying ‘we’ and you didn’t want her to know. Not because you’re ashamed, you are gay and she knows that. You just don’t need her to know that he’s your most important person. 

Dinner? Tomorrow? Jesus, she knows you love her fried chicken. She knows you’d never turn that down. You’d have to be dying to turn that down. 

——————

You text him and he doesn’t reply right away, he said he was packing so you call, “hey,” one word that sounds all fucking shaky. You drove up the shore a ways, to a place you go sometimes to just chill. Just be alone. Because maybe this is overwhelming and you’re not sure how to handle it or how to talk about it and you keep feeling like you’re losing him because maybe you’re holding on too tight. And you don’t want to be desperate and you don’t want him to think he has to do this, like he has to do this or you’ll send Pope after him but, shit, it tumbles out, “it’s not a thing. Ya know, dinner, it’s just that she, I told her. About us. Moving in and,” your voice trails off and you take a drag of your cigarette and pretend not to be nervous, pretend not to be choking on your own breath and your own stupidity for even asking him to sit through dinner with your family. It’s enough that you asked him to move in and you wanted to go with him to South Africa and he doesn’t want you to. And now he doesn’t want to go to dinner. And, “you can say no,” it’s quiet. But you want him to know he can say no whenever to anything and you’re not going to lose it and you’re not going to force anything and you’re not going to scare him or hit him or send Pope after him or, you take a breath. Force a breath. Your hands are getting sweaty and the ocean’s waves don’t make a sound compared to the rushing in your head.

“No. Yeah, just,” he’s thinking too hard. It means he wants to say no. Maybe to all of it. Is it to all of it?

Get a fucking grip Deran, “fried chicken,” how the fuck does that sound so awful. Like you’ll die if you don’t eat the fried chicken and you’ll die if you do eat it and he’s not next to you. But he has to leave tomorrow night and it’s all you’ve got until he’s back with the French guy that you’re certain he’d say yes to and you’re not certain he can go without you asking him if he’s yours. 

But you’re certain he’s yours, “she is a good cook,” because he’ll sit through a family dinner with your fucked up family on his last night in town for a few weeks just so you don’t choke to death on your own stupid breath.

——————

Ox broke his parole. Ox broke his parole because Ox is dead. Ox is dead and Colby didn’t bother to tell you. Or his mom. 

“Try and act like you suddenly give a shit. You sent us down there. As much on you as it is on me.”

He doesn’t need to point that out. You know that. And you need to tell his mom. But how do you tell his mom. You just walk in there and tell her he’s dead? And you know why? But you don’t know where his body is. And it seems like she knows. Like she knows he’s dead but she wants to keep her false hope alive that he’s just missing, that he just ran off, and she touches you. Your cheek. And how does someone else’s mom feel more like a mom than your own mom ever did, “you were always such a good friend.”

But you’re a piece of shit. 

You’re a giant fucking piece of shit, but you have to meet Adrian at the bar and help him unload his boxes until you can bring it all over to the house. Your house. And his house. Home. 

Home. But it feels like he’s pulling away from you when he’s standing in the bar looking at his boxes, all stacked up nice and neat and you can’t let him pull away from you. And you can’t let him know how much of a piece of shit you really are, but he should now how much of a piece of shit you really are. He should know. He should know so that he can get in with this French guy while the gettin’s good, but you can’t let him go, you can’t. Because he is the only thing that makes you human. Even when you’re not. 

Your head lands on his back, between his shoulder blades and your hands land on his hips and you should be letting him go, but you’ve never been good at that. Instead you remind him that he’s fine, that he’s got the completion when there are so many other things you should be telling him, reminding him. But you can’t. You can’t let him know just how tarnished you are. In every way imaginable. Because even if the French guy is better for him, he’s the only thrill you’ve ever had. He’s the only human part left of you. And if he comes back, then you’ll give him all the things he deserves. He just has to come back. He just has to want to. He just has to want to come back to you.

You talk to him with all the silence that you’ve always talked to him with. With your hands on his sweat-slicked skin and your lips on his lips and his neck and his back and his ass. And you talk to him with your hips and your bruising grip on his pelvis. And he talks to you with the arch in his back and the gentle moans and the way his hand wraps around yours. He talks to you in the way he smiles at you when you climb up to the loft and you lean over him and his hand slides down your back, across your shoulder, down your arm, fingertips brushing over your bicep. He talks to you with his legs wrapped around you, his heels denting the backs of your knees. His fingers in your beard. The sparkle in his eyes that makes you think he sees something more in you than you’ll ever see in your life. Something more that exists somewhere inside you. It has to. It has to exist. If he can see it, then it has to be there. 

When you wake up the next morning and feel like you’ve slept for the first time in your life, when he’s still in your arms and he’s still warm and soft and gentle and he still sees something in you worth seeing. And you have to let him know, but you don’t know how to let him know that you love him and you always have and the French guy might have money and he might not be a professional thief and he might not be a piece of shit, but he’s not you. And you can love him. If he’ll let you.

You spend the day forgetting every thing else in your life. You spend the day with him, with the only part of you that is pure. And there are a million times you should just say it, just say it, just say it. It’s simple. And it’s always been there. But every time his eyes land on yours you know he already knows so it would just be wasted words. Was it ever about words anyway? Hasn’t it always been about showing it? About proving it? About being playful and stupid and in love. About grabbing his ass and kissing him in the shower and you’re truly considering holding his hand on the way home, but you don’t.

You really think about holding his hand on the way to Smurf’s and you’re not sure if it’s for your comfort or his, but you’re pretty sure you’re going to choke to death on your own breath and your own stupidity by letting him get that much closer to the side of you that you hate so goddamn much. And you hate that he looks right here, that he looks like he should be here, next to you at the table. Even if he doesn’t look right here. If he looks like he probably smoked a little extra just to get through this. And you don’t blame him. 

She’s not going to waste any time getting down to business, handing over the deeds, and, “I’ve held on for too long,” it’s pointed at you. And it’s pointed at Adrian. And you want to toss the table over and strangle her if she ever looks at him again, but you can’t. She’s your mother after all. She’ll always be your mother. And she’ll make sure you know that. She’ll make sure you know that even if you sweat and bled and took bullets for this business, she’ll make sure you know that you owe her for it. That she’s doing you a favor by giving you the collateral for your new place with Adrian. 

What the hell is she playing at with J? 

And Pope. Okay, well, at least Adrian knows Pope and you don’t even have to acknowledge that. 

Adrian’s gotta go. And that is just fine with you. Fine in the sense that you get to leave now. Leave Smurf’s house before she can come back out and make some other kind speech that she’s probably got planned before the night is over. But not fine in the sense that now is it. Now is bringing him to the airport and waiting. Waiting to see if he’ll come back to you. 

You want to cling. God, you want to cling. You want to wrap yourself around him and never let go. But that’s not how life works. And he’s not yours to cling to. He’s his own. And he’s going to surf, really surf, all the shit you thought once upon a time you’d do together. Back in juniors maybe. Back before Smurf took that from you. You wonder if it’s really too late. Too late to try your luck. Too late to buy a ticket out. Too late to tell him. 

Instead you grab his arms when he turns to look at you. You think you might force a smile, something calm and supportive maybe even, but you’re not really sure, “let me know when you land,” you think it comes out chill. You hope it does. ‘Cause the last thing he needs right now are your nerves to bring along with his own. 

He takes a deep breath and you know he’s waiting for a move. And you’re waiting for a move because he’s in charge. He’s in charge for the rest of your damn lives. You took that away from him too many times. You want to be his choice. Not something you forced him into. Because you can’t make him feel something he doesn’t. 

But you’re pretty sure, when he does lean in, you’re pretty sure he feels something. He feels something. Maybe it’s not simple. Not simple the way it is for you. He’s the only thrill you’ve ever had. He’s the only human part left of you. And he’s the only thing you’ve ever loved. That’s pretty simple. But you can’t expect it to be that way for him too.

You’re not sure why it feels like something is ending. Like the kiss you’re offering and he’s offering is the end. You’re not sure why it feels that way. But you convince yourself it’s only the end of the shit you’ve put him through. It’s only the end of that. Because when he comes back, it’ll be the beginning. 

And you suppose, for something to begin, then something’s gotta end. So if it ends with a kiss, a smile, and a wave it’s not that bad of an ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I gave them an extra day there at the end. Oh well. They needed it. 
> 
> Hopefully that wasn't too much 'you', I wish I had done it in the normal narrative style but I guess it served the purpose I needed - got me way closer to these characters. Waves picks up between 3 and 4 (mostly canon compliant with a handful of liberties thrown in for storytelling purposes), I'm debating some S4 fill-ins but I'll have to wait until it hits Prime. There's Not Much Left takes off after 4x13. So I hope to see you all again :)
> 
> I adore these characters, every last fucked up one of them. This fandom on here is lucky to have some talented writers judging by what I've read so far, but there's just not enough!!! 
> 
> Snip, snap, snout, this tale is told out! Thanks for reading, you won't find me on social media but I love a good comment section. If you made it, then hit that little kudos button at the bottom of your screen, say hi if you'd like. Bring negativity elsewhere, no one around here has time for that shit... 
> 
> Thanks friends!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are appreciated :)


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